


and now the rains weep o'er his halls

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I mean, Inspired by Crimson Peak (2015), Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Murder, Sibling Incest, This is a Crimson Peak AU you guys I don't know how to make that any clearer, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: Ghosts are real. This much, Brienne knows.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 59
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is: the Crimson Peak AU I've been talking about since...Crimson Peak came out. Hope y'all enjoy :)

Ghosts are real.

This much, Brienne knows.

She had always believed in them, as children are wont to do. Her governess had told her plenty of stories to keep her from wandering out of bed at night, as children are also wont to do. It had worked; Brienne had remained firmly in her bed, afraid that ghosts would come for her if they found her creeping around the house at night. 

Only Galladon could persuade her to get up in the middle of the night, slipping out of the house and down to the sea.

“What about the ghosts?” she would protest. 

“There are no ghosts, silly,” he would laugh. “And even if there were ghosts, why should they stop us from swimming?”

Galladon was everything Brienne wanted to be; tall and handsome, funny and charming, and most importantly, kind. Though he was a boy and four years Brienne’s senior, he was her best friend, and he made her feel like she was his in return.

Until that fateful day when he went swimming on his own; when he came back, he was being carried by the men who had found him, his lungs full of water and the life snuffed out of him.

.

That had been the saddest time of Brienne’s life. Galladon had been her best friend. He was the only one of her siblings to have survived the cradle, and he had outlived their mother, who had died when Brienne was so young that she hardly remembers the woman. From then on, it was just Brienne and her father.

It had been one of the scariest times of Brienne’s life, too. Not because she was afraid of drowning, or of being alone. No, if anything, she was afraid of Galladon coming back.

.

And he did come back. 

.

It was the night after his funeral when he came back.

Somehow, she had known he would. She couldn’t explain it, and she didn’t dare try to explain it to anyone, but she knew that he would come back to see her one last time.

Her father had kissed her goodnight, and she had lain in bed, watching the clock tick and waiting, waiting, waiting.

At almost midnight on the dot, a dark shadow that had been growing steadily darker shifted at the end of the hallway. Brienne’s fingers clenched around her bedquilt, pressing it against her mouth to muffle her scream.

It was Galladon, even if the apparition before her was black and bloody and nothing like the golden boy she once knew. He loomed over her, stinking of rotting flesh and sour, briny breath.

“Beware,” he croaked in the voice of a drowning boy. “Beware the rains of Castamere.”

Brienne had never heard of Castamere, but it was not a name she was ever like to forget.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Ten Years Later _

Brienne stares into the mirror, examining her reflection and sighing. She had washed her face, combed her hair, and arranged it artfully but sensibly before pinning her hat, yet she still looks as unfortunate as ever.

She accepted a long time ago that she would never be pretty, and usually, it doesn’t bother her...except for days like today, when she needs to make a good impression. Even if Mr. Tarly is her father’s acquaintance and a man she’s known from childhood, she wants him to think favorably of her. She is, after all, trying to get her manuscript published. 

She wishes she had other options, but Sapphire Isle is a relatively small island, and the next publisher would be on the mainland, and Brienne isn’t ready to venture  _ quite _ that far as of yet. First, she wants Randyll Tarly’s opinion. Even if it is an unfavorable one, she’s sure he’ll have some insight that might help her. 

Deciding she looks as attractive as she’s ever going to get, she opens the door and leaves the house, stepping out onto the street.

Galladon passed from this world ten years ago, but Brienne has thought about her brother every single day since then. He was her closest friend, and in many ways, he still is. His ghost has not come back to visit her, but she can still feel his presence with her almost all the time. Every bump in the night, every faint whisper in an empty room, every shiver that runs down her spine on a hot summer’s day, all of these are Galladon’s way of telling her he’s still with her. 

She knows it sounds strange, which is why she’s never told another soul; not even her father, who loves her more than anyone. He tolerates a great many things about her, but she somehow feels that Galladon might be the tipping point for him.

The manuscript she wrote was in no small measure inspired by her brother. In some ways, she even feels as if he helped her write it. It’s a story about a boy who died without realizing it, and the only person who can see him is his sister. Together, they must solve the mystery behind his death.

Perhaps it is a bit silly, but Brienne likes it, and more importantly, she thinks Galladon likes it, too. 

The streets are full of familiar faces, the residents of the island she has known since birth. They all know her, too, which is why the smiles grow forced as their eyes turn to her, their inclined heads painfully solicitous. If she strains her ears, she can swear she hears mutters of,  _ “Brienne the Beauty,” _ followed by sniggers.

Not even her father’s reputation or her brother’s drowning had been enough to spare her the indignity of her looks. As if she wasn’t ugly enough, she is also taller than every woman on the island and most of the men, too. Her father can afford the finest clothes from King’s Landing, but there’s not a single dress or hat that softens the blow of her looks. It’s the reason she avoids going out if she can help it, and the reason she declines invitations she knows are sent out of decorum. No one really wants Brienne darkening their doorway, and she doesn’t want to burden them with her presence, either, so they all breathe a quiet sigh of relief when she sends back a polite note informing them that she will not be able to attend.

Randyll Tarly’s office is off the main street and not a far walk from her house, but she avoids the heart of the town whenever she can, and her heart begins racing as more and more people come into view. She smiles and inclines her head politely, and even though she forces herself to slow down, she’s sweating and flushed by the time she reaches Mr. Tarly’s office.

Mrs. Tarly is descending the stairs with her children in tow, and she beams when she sees Brienne.

“Miss Tarth!” she cries, gliding down to kiss Brienne’s cheek. Brienne flushes, knowing it must be hot and sweaty, but Mrs. Tarly is far too kind to say anything about it. 

“Hello, Mrs. Tarly,” she says breathlessly. “I was just on my way to see your husband.”

“Yes, he’s been reading your manuscript!” Mrs. Tarly looks delighted. “I hope he can offer you some assistance.”

“That is my hope as well,” Brienne admits. She looks around at the Tarly children and is surprised to see an old face. “Sam!”

“Hello,” the eldest Tarly child says with a smile. Brienne doesn’t really have what she would consider friends, but Samwell Tarly is the closest she thinks she could get to one.

“Are you back from university?”

“For a bit.” He looks a bit nervous, but then again, he always does. “You wrote a manuscript?”

“I did,” Brienne says proudly. “A work of fiction.”

Sam likes reading, hence why he was one of the only men from the island to go to university. If Brienne had known he was coming, she would have asked him to read her manuscript before presenting it to his father. 

“Well, we shan’t keep you waiting!” Mrs. Tarly declares. “Miss Tarth, you simply must have tea with us tomorrow; I’m sure Sam is eager for intelligent company on our quiet little island!”

“You’re very intelligent, Mother,” Sam defends at once, but she only laughs.

“That is kind of you, my sweet, but I have not read quite so many books as you and Miss Tarth here. What say you, Brienne?”

Truth be told, Brienne  _ is _ eager to talk to Sam, and to hear all that he has learned at university. They are not completely isolated out here on the island, but everything has to come from the mainland, and many times, the mainland forgets that Sapphire Isle even exists. She wants to hear what he’s learned and seen and done, what the world looks like beyond their spit of land. 

“I would love to,” she says at last, and Mrs. Tarly beams.

“ _ Wonderful! _ I shall expect you tomorrow at three.”

“Tomorrow at three,” Brienne echoes.

Mrs. Tarly squeezes her hand. “Good luck,” she says again, and then departs with her small flock of children. 

Brienne takes a deep breath and climbs the stairs to see the formidable Mr. Tarly.

.

She knows as soon as she walks into the office that he did not like her manuscript. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she does. 

Nevertheless, she sits across from him with a nervous smile, smoothing her dress over her legs as he takes off his eyeglasses to regard her.

“I must say, Miss Tarth, I was not expecting something of this...nature.” 

She forces herself to keep smiling. “How do you mean, Mr. Tarly?”

His nostrils flare. “Women usually write...love stories.”

Her smile becomes even more forced. “I suppose some women do.”

There’s a pause, almost as if he’s waiting for further explanation When he receives none, he humphs. “It may serve for a serial in a smaller paper.”

She tries not to feel the sting. She  _ did _ ask for his honest opinion, and this  _ is _ her first story. In fact, a serial in a smaller paper is an excellent compliment for her first story. She smiles, feeling heartened. “Thank you, Mr. Tarly.”

He leans forward. “It may serve, but the editors will never run it if they know it was written by a woman.”

Her smile slips. “Oh.”

“You must take on a pseudonym. Two initials and a last name usually serve.”

“B. E. Tarth?”

“Perhaps,” he allows. “But if anyone draws a connection, the paper will discontinue the serial and apologize to its readers.”

“I see.” That’s a bit disheartening. “So it must not be my name at all?”

“No,” he says flatly. “And furthermore, you cannot send it in as it is. Your handwriting is much too feminine to be mistaken for a man’s.”

“I see.” She stares down at the stack of paper bound together. “So...have it...rewritten?”

“Miss Tarth, we are living in a modern era. Your father’s company is in possession of typewriters, is it not?”

Of course. Typewriters. Not an easy machine to wield, or so Brienne has heard, but if she can pen a book, surely she can type it? She’ll have the manuscript in front of her, all she has to do is move the words from one page to the next.

Yes, she can do this. 

She smiles at Mr. Tarly. “Thank you, ser. But...the story itself...it was good?”

He humphs. “Fiction is not my forte, Miss Tarth.”

Her smile slips again. “I see. Well, I thank you for looking it over in any case.” She rises, taking the manuscript with her. “Oh, I nearly forgot--Mrs. Tarly invited me over for tea tomorrow, to catch up with Sam. You must be excited he’s home from university.”

Mr. Tarly’s lip curls. “I would be happier if he came back a man. I had  _ hoped _ that being exposed to the world might turn him into one, but he’s just as soft as he was before.”

Brienne stares at him, horrified...but sadly, not surprised. Randyll Tarly has never thought fondly of his eldest son, but like Mr. Tarly, Brienne had hoped being out in the world might make him like Sam more. She’s sad to find that that is not the case. 

_ Sam deserves better than his father.  _ So what if he leaves everything to his second son? There’s a whole wide world out there with Sam’s name on it.

_ Sam’s name...and mine too, perhaps. _

.

She doesn’t see her father until dinner, after he’s come home and hastily cleaned up before the evening meal. 

“How was your meeting with Mr. Tarly?” he asks eagerly. 

“He said my story could be published as a serial.”

“A serial?” Selwyn asks with a confused sort of enthusiasm.

She smiles. “In the papers. A small paper. Subscribers will read installments one at a time.”

“I see.” Selwyn’s eyes scan her face. “And that’s...good?”

She smiles again. “Yes, it is. Many famous authors got their starts publishing serials.”

“Oh, excellent!” he proclaims, looking relieved. “I’m very proud of you, darling!”

“Thank you, Father.” She hesitates. “He did say...that I should submit my manuscript under a man’s name.”

Selwyn considers this. “Oh.”

“And he said my writing is too effeminate.” She clears her throat. “He suggested I type the story.”

“Type? On a typewriter?”

She nods, holding her breath.

Selwyn considers this. “Well...I suppose...you could use one of the ones at the office.”

“Truly, Father?” 

He smiles. “I don’t see why not. I’ll have Miss Roelle teach you in the morning, would you like that?”

“I’d love it!”

Selwyn smiles as she kisses his cheek. 

“Oh,” she adds, settling back in her seat, “I ran into Mrs. Tarly on the way to her husband’s office. Samwell is back from university, and they’ve invited me to tea tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Selwyn’s eyebrows rise in interest. “He’s back, is he?”

“Father.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I see the look in your eyes,” she accuses, pointing her fork at him. “And I know what you’re thinking.”

He clears his throat. “It’s only...well, Samwell is a good lad, and I won’t be around forever, you know.”

Her good mood falters. “I know.”

“I want to see you taken care of. I want to know that you won’t be alone when I pass from this world, that you’ll have someone to advocate for you.”

She doesn’t take offense, because she knows that he’s right. Brienne is perfectly self-sufficient and can care for herself, but there is only so much she can do as a woman alone. With a husband to help her and advocate for her, though, there is much and more she could do. 

_ I could write my books. _ Not many husbands would abide by such things, but she thinks Samwell Tarly would. He’s an intelligent man, and not the condescending sort. He’s always been a bit funny, a bit of an outcast like her. Maybe they could marry and leave this horribly small-minded place. He could read his books and she could write hers. It wouldn’t be a love match, but she would be happy...and that’s more than most women with her looks can ask for.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Brienne accompanies Selwyn to his office, where he sets her up with his secretary, Miss Roelle. Brienne has known the other woman since she was a young girl, and the secretary kindly shows Brienne how to use the typewriter. Brienne feels like a clumsy, oafish child, learning this new skill, but Miss Roelle is a patient teacher, and Brienne soon gets the hang of it. 

“It will take me days,” she laughs, a little embarrassed. “But I think I can do it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Miss Roelle says firmly. “And I shall be right here if you need any help.”

Brienne becomes absorbed in her task, typing out the words of her manuscript one painstaking letter at a time. She moves slowly, unwilling to make a mistake lest she start from scratch. 

It feels a long time later when a voice says, “Dear gods, is that a woman?”

She looks up, her cheeks flushing as she realizes the strange voice is coming from a handsome stranger...who’s staring right at her. 

He’s not from around here; she can see that instantly. He dresses too fine to be a Sapphire Isle resident, and besides, she knows all the well-dressed people around here anyway, and she’s never seen this stranger before. He’s from the mainland, but what he’s doing here, standing there and insulting her, she has no idea.

“Can I help you?” she asks, frowning.

“Good gods, it is.”

Her frown deepens. “Is there something I can assist you with, or are you just going to stand there mocking me all day?”

Miss Roelle bustles forward. “I beg your pardon, ser--”

“You needn’t beg, madam.” He sets down an attache case and pulls an embossed card from his pocket, handing it to Miss Roelle. “I’m here to see Mr. Selwyn Tarth.”

Miss Roelle holds the card where Brienne can see it.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” she reads. 

“Do you know him, miss?” Miss Roelle asks softly.

“I don’t.” Brienne looks back up at him. “Why are you here, Ser Jaime Lannister?”

“I have business with Mr. Tarth,” he declares in a bored sort of tone. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

Miss Roelle’s face pales, but Brienne realizes he doesn’t know who she is--and she intends to keep it that way. 

“The great man himself.” She gives Miss Roelle a significant look. “I’ll go get him, Miss Roelle.”

Miss Roelle looks at her and nods slowly, a small smile creeping over her face. “Very well.”

Brienne gets to her feet, ignoring Ser Jaime Lannister’s disbelieving guffaw, and sweeps up to her father’s office. His door is open, as it often is, and a few of the board members are sitting and chatting with him; all of them look up expectantly as Brienne enters. 

Many of these men she’s known since she was a child. She remembers meeting them on her father’s knee, beaming while he proudly introduced them all to his little girl.

“She’s clever, this one,” he would say.

Most of the men have had the decency not to openly disparage her looks...but she knows that their wives and daughters gossip about her, the ugly daughter of Selwyn Tarth, and express that it’s a good thing her father has so much money, or else she would never find a husband. 

Brienne has made her peace with it. The men are always polite to her, and they are polite now, rising from their seats to greet her.

“Father, gentlemen.” She politely declines the seats offered her. “Ser Jaime Lannister is here to meet with you.”

“Ah.” Selwyn looks less than pleased. “Very well. I’ll go meet him.”

Brienne wants to ask him why he looks so lackluster at the prospect of meeting with Ser Jaime Lannister, and then decides better of it in front of others. Instead, she asks, “Who is he?”

“A lord from the westerlands,” Jon Connington tells her. “Though the title is about all the dignity he has left.”

“He’s here to propose funding for his project,” Selwyn tells her, answering her unasked question. 

“What project?”

“Well, that’s what he’s here to show us.” Selwyn moves around the desk, squeezing her shoulder. “You go on back to your typing now.”

“Yes, Father.” She dawdles behind, watching her father lead the other men to the front hall so he can greet Ser Jaime Lannister. She lingers by the wall, watching as they enter the study. 

“I don’t like him,” Miss Roelle declares as soon as the door is shut. “He was very rude.”

“He’s a lord from the westerlands,” Brienne echoes. “Here to propose funding for his project.”

“What project?”

Brienne gives the secretary a mischievous smile. “That’s exactly what I’m going to find out.”

Miss Roelle’s eyes widen. “Miss Tarth!”

“Father won’t mind,” Brienne insists. “And none of the other gentlemen would dare say anything. If Ser Jaime Lannister finds my presence offensive and says anything, my father will order him out without a second thought.”

Miss Roelle huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “You’ve a wicked streak to you, Miss Tarth.”

“No one’s ever told me that before.” Brienne lifts her chin. “I shall take it as a compliment.” And with that, she moves to the study, pressing her ear to the door. 

The general shuffle and chatter of the men getting settled has died down, and now it’s just Ser Jaime Lannister speaking. Brienne opens the door softly--just a crack, at first, and then she slips inside as quickly and quietly as she’s able.

Some of the members of the board glance at her, but give little more than a passing nod before they turn their attention back to their guest speaker. The man himself barely spares her a glance as he talks.

“The gold mines of Casterly Rock have provided most of the world’s gold for hundreds of years. Because of the high demand, overmining has recently led the mines to collapse, which is why I am here today: to show you a harvester of my own design.” He takes out a little model, setting it on the table and flicking a switch. The model begins whirring, little buckets and hammers moving gracefully up and down. “This machine will revolutionize mining as we know it--not just for gold, but silver, diamonds...even sapphires.”

This gets a few chuckles.

Emboldened, Ser Jaime continues, “It’s safer than standard mining, too. In areas that have been overmined, the risk of collapse will only come at the risk of the machine, and not the men who work in the mines.”

That surprises Brienne, that someone as arrogant and rude as Ser Jaime would care about other people’s lives. 

“Turn it off, please,” Selwyn says at last.

Smile slipping ever so slightly, Ser Jaime turns off the machine with a wisp of smoke.

Selwyn clears his throat. “Have you tested this model? Full scale, I mean?”

“Not yet,” Ser Jaime says quickly, “however, we are very close, and with proper funding--”

“So you don’t have the model,” Selwyn continues, his older, deeper voice cutting off the light tones of Ser Jaime Lannister. “You don’t have proof that this will work. All you have is a toy and a charming nod towards the isle, is that it?”

Ser Jaime clears his throat. “Mr. Tarth, I--”

“You’ve already tried and failed to raise capital in Lannisport, King’s Landing, and Riverrun,” Selwyn continues, rattling a sheaf of paper before him. “And now you’re here.”

There’s a beat. “Yes.” 

“Perhaps you thought you could swindle us simple island folks. Perhaps you thought we would be impressed by your fine clothes and your embossed calling card. Perhaps you thought we had never heard of you, or your family, or your mines. But we are not so removed from society as all that, Ser Jaime. We know who you are. We know what you want. And we know better than to invest a stag in a sunken mine.”

Ser Jaime’s golden face is pale. “I assure you, Mr. Tarth, my intentions are not so dishonorable as all that. The mines are damaged; I have not hidden that fact from you. And it is true I have failed to raise capital before. No one wants to invest a stag in a sunken mine, as you said.” His hands flex nervously. “The mines of Casterly Rock were once great. They can be again. If you put a stag into the mines, think what you can reap when they are back to their full potential.”

“And if they don’t reach their full potential?” Selwyn asks sharply. 

Ser Jaime Lannister doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. 

Brienne slips from the room, feeling oddly sorry for the man. Even if he was terrible to her, it’s clear he’s struggling. 

She’ll have to ask Sam about the gold mines of Casterly Rock. The name is vaguely familiar to her, but Sam would know about them without even having to crack open a book, she’ll bet. 

She returns to her desk, picking up where she left off on her manuscript. Miss Roelle glances at her, but the door to the conference room opens and the men spill out of it in a moment. Ser Jaime Lannister leaves without a backward glance. 

“Good riddance,” Miss Roelle mutters. 

Brienne turns back to her manuscript, but she finds herself unable to concentrate.

.

At two-thirty, Brienne packs up her manuscript--what’s she’s typed up, any way--and makes for the Tarly residence. It’s not a long walk, so she allows herself a leisurely stroll, walking out of the town proper and into Horn Hill, the upscale neighborhood to which the Tarlys belong.

Mrs. Tarly is ever the gracious hostess, welcoming Brienne and settling her in the parlor with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Sam, Talla, Tara, and Tanda are all there, but Dickon and Mr. Tarly are nowhere to be found.

_ Probably for the best, _ Brienne thinks to herself.

Sam is clearly embarrassed to be the center of attention, but he dutifully tells his mother, sisters, and Brienne about his time at university, and as he becomes more comfortable with the subject, his evident excitement grows. 

Brienne likes hearing about his adventures, from staying up late in the library to gallivanting around the city with his friends, Jon, Pyp, Green, Edd, and Toad. The women are all laughing when the maid enters, curtsying. 

“Ser Jaime Lannister, ma’am.”

Brienne nearly drops her teacup in her surprise. What on earth could he be doing  _ here? _

But to her horror, Mrs. Tarly beams and says, “Show him in, please.”

Brienne glances around at her hosts, none of whom seem perturbed. If anything, the girls are all giggling madly, though they manage to stifle their giggles when Ser Jaime enters. 

“Mrs. Tarly,” he greets before his green eyes snap to Brienne and widen in surprise.

“Ser Jaime!” Mrs. Tarly says, rising to take his hand. “Have you met Miss Brienne Tarth?”

“Tarth,” he repeats, and Brienne is not a little satisfied to see the horror in his eyes. “As in...Selwyn Tarth?”

“He is my father,” Brienne says sweetly. Turning to Mrs. Tarly, she adds, “We only met in passing this morning. I caught Ser Jaime’s name, but I do not think he caught mine.”

“I’m afraid I did not.” He clears his throat. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all! Samwell was just regaling us with his tales of his time in university. Please, do join us.”

Ser Jaime hesitates. “I…”

“Please, Ser Jaime,” Talla encourages. “We’d be so honored by your presence.”

“Very well.” He takes a seat, accepting a cup from Mrs. Tarly. “If you insist.”

“Oh, but I do,” Talla says, and Tara and Tanda giggle.

But Sam’s excitement seems to have faded with the new member of his audience. “It wasn’t very interesting, really,” he blathers, turning red. 

“Where did you go to university?” Ser Jaime asks politely.

Sam swallows. “The Citadel.”

“The Citadel? That’s a fine school,” Ser Jaime says, sounding properly impressed. “What did you study?”

“Oh, erm, history,” Sam says, still flushing. “My concentration was on the Dawn Age.”

“Ah, yes, the Long Night and the Last Hero,” Ser Jaime says knowingly. 

“Are you a student of history also, Ser Jaime?” Mrs. Tarly asks politely. 

“Military history; a requirement at my boarding school, you see.”

Of course Ser Jaime went to a boarding school. It’s not unheard of, but few children from Sapphire Isle are ever sent so far away; even if their parents have the money, the nearest boarding schools of repute are in King’s Landing. That’s quite a distance for children to travel. 

Brienne had been tutored at home, and she had attended the island’s modest finishing school when the time came. She had striven hard to comport herself as a proper young lady; even if she is ugly and mannish, at least she bears herself well, and all her instructors had said so. 

“You may not be as pretty and charming as the other girls,” one of the ladies had said, “But no one can doubt that you are a fine lady of good breeding.”

_ No one except Ser Jaime Lannister. _ She can still hear his voice asking, “Dear gods, is that a woman?”

_ Now he knows better, _ she thinks with satisfaction.

Sam and Ser Jaime speak for a time about Oldtown and places they have been before Mrs. Tarly urges Tara to entertain them all with some music. Tara obliges, setting herself before the piano. They all listen politely at first, but as the music continues, Ser Jaime begins speaking to Talla, and Sam leans over to Brienne to murmur, “Would you like to see some of the books I brought back with me?”

“Yes, please,” Brienne says earnestly, and she and Sam slip out of the parlor and into the library. 

He leads her to a shelf, indicating a stack of books. “These are rare books and first editions,” he informs her proudly. “I had quite a time tracking them down, but it was worth it.”

“They’re beautiful,” Brienne murmurs, admiring the pressed gold lettering on the leather covers. “All histories?”

“Most of them, but there’s some mythology and one or two fiction novels.”

“Fiction?” she asks eagerly, looking up at him. “Do you like fiction?”

“Sometimes. I prefer the histories, but I enjoy a good novel from time to time.” He hesitates. “How was...my father…?”

“You know your father.”

“Ah. That bad?”

She allows herself a smile. “It wasn’t...terrible. He had some good advice.”

“Oh?” Sam asks in surprise.

“Well, not so much about the book itself,” she allows. “But that I should publish under a man’s name. I’m typing up the book now because he said my handwriting is too feminine.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“He didn’t have much to say about the story itself,” she continues. “Just that he was surprised it wasn’t a love story, since that’s all women write. Or something of that nature.”

“Ah, yes, that sounds like Father,” Sam says unhappily. “I’m sorry about him.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” he insists. “I used to take everything he said seriously--it wasn’t until I was out in the world that I realized he was...wrong. Oh, he’s had some schooling and he knows a thing or two about publishing, but he’s only considered an authority because he’s the only editor on the island. On the mainland, he’s just a bumpkin.”

Brienne can’t help smiling at that. “Your father is the furthest thing from a bumpkin I can imagine.”

“Perhaps not a bumpkin,” Sam amends, “but no one on the mainland would take him seriously. So why should we? You and I are destined for bigger things than Sapphire Isle.”

Brienne bites her lip. “Do you think so?”

“I’m sure of it. Look, I only came back here to see my mother and sisters; soon I’ll returning to the mainland. Perhaps you could come with me? I know there are rules of conduct,” he adds quickly, “but maybe one of my sisters could come too? Then you could see the mainland and not be...cooped up here with people like my father?”

“It is a tempting thought,” she admits. “I have felt...I don’t want to say  _ chained _ here, but…”

“I understand. Your father is all the family you have left, and he’s here. You are not free to come and go because you are a woman.”

She nods helplessly. 

Sam hesitates. “Brienne, there’s--”

It is at that moment that Ser Jaime appears in the library, eyebrows raised. “Forgive the intrusion.”

“It is no intrusion at all,” Sam lies. “I was showing Miss Tarth the books I collected at university.”

“Are you a student of history as well, Miss Tarth?” Ser Jaime asks, joining them. 

“Not as much as you or Mr. Tarly,” she admits. “I am rather more fond of fiction.”

Ser Jaime’s mouth curls in a way she doesn’t like. “Of course you are.”

She bristles at that. “Forgive me, ser, but I do not take your meaning.”

“Fiction is a popular genre amongst ladies,” he explains. 

Brienne resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I was not aware of this generalization.”

“Not all ladies, to be sure,” he continues. “My own sweet sister prefers to read the society columns and little else.”

“Does she possess your charm and uncanny social grace, too, Ser Jaime?” Brienne asks coldly.

Sam shifts uncomfortably. 

Ser Jaime has the gall to smirk at her. “The social grace is all Cersei’s; the charm is all mine.”

“Which is to say, there is none.” Horrified at herself, Brienne leaves the room, passing through the parlor. “Forgive me, Mrs. Tarly,” she apologizes. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Tarly exclaims. “Would you like to lie down for a bit?”

“No, I thank you; I believe the walk home may do me good. Thank you so much for inviting me to tea.” 

To her continued horror, Ser Jaime appears in the parlor. “Allow me to escort you, Miss Tarth,” he offers, the very picture of chivalry. “If you are not feeling well, you should not go alone.”

Brienne opens her mouth to refuse, but Mrs. Tarly says, “That is so thoughtful of you, Ser Jaime!”

So Brienne has no choice but to let Ser Jaime accompany her. He takes her elbow as though concerned for her fragile state, but as soon as they are out the door, he hisses, “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“You didn’t give me the chance,” she hisses back. “I hadn’t even  _ seen _ you when you made that horrid remark.”

Ser Jaime has the good grace to wince. “Yes, well, I wasn’t expecting to find Selwyn Tarth’s  _ daughter _ sitting at his secretary’s typewriter.”

“That’s your own fault,” she remarks snidely, wrenching her arm from his grasp. “You can let me go now, Ser Jaime.”

He keeps pace easily with her, much to her irritation.

“Why didn’t you say anything? At your father’s office?”

“I wanted to watch you make a fool of yourself.”

“Well, you succeeded.”

She can’t help but smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You needn’t be so proud, you know.”

“Needn’t I?” She finally whirls to face him. “I may be ugly on the outside, Ser Jaime, but at least I am a decent person, and I do not have to go from city to city, begging for someone to invest in my silly idea. You may have been blessed with a title and handsome looks, but that will never compensate for your ugly heart and the callous way you speak to those you deem beneath you. I wish you a good day, ser.” 

And with that, Brienne leaves Ser Jaime Lannister gaping in the street.


	4. Chapter 4

Brienne returns to her father’s office in the morning to continue transcribing her manuscript. She finishes in the early afternoon, stiff-fingered but pleased with herself. She binds the manuscript, puts it in her bag, and makes her way home. 

As soon as she enters, the maid, Betsy, flies into the hall with wide eyes.

“Beg your pardon, Miss Tarth, but there’s a Ser Jaime Lannister here to see you. I told him you were out, but he insisted on waiting.”

Brienne looks to the parlor in alarm, where, sure enough, she sees the profile of Ser Jaime.

Well, there’s nothing for it now but to welcome him.

“Thank you, Betsy.” She steels herself before going into the parlor.

Ser Jaime rises at once, hat clutched in his hands.

“Miss Tarth,” he says, bowing his head as if this were a normal social call and not a gross invasion.

“Ser Jaime,” she says crisply. “I was not expecting you.”

“I know. I apologize for the intrusion; I had hoped to speak with you alone.” 

Brienne is tempted to ask him to leave, but she decides that whatever must be said between them is best said in private. Nodding curtly, she closes the parlor door behind her, ignoring Betsy’s curious look. 

“Would you like some tea?” Ser Jaime asks. “Your maid was kind enough to bring me some.”

Brienne cannot even begin to comprehend the horror of having a man she loathes in her own home offering her tea. 

“What do you want, Ser Jaime?”

“To apologize, for one thing.” He looks at her with a seriousness she did not think he possessed. “You were right; I behaved atrociously yesterday. I could make up a pretty excuse, but it would be just that: an excuse, and there is no excuse, no matter how pretty, for my behavior.”

Brienne is even more floored now than she was a moment ago. Is he truly apologizing? 

A reminder flares within her; she steps back, suddenly afraid. “Who put you up to this?”

“What? No one put me up to this.” He furrows his brow. “I’m here of my own accord.”

“Was this Ronnet Connington’s idea?” she asks sharply. “Or Hyle Hunt’s, perhaps?”

“I have no idea who those people are.”

Perhaps he is being sincere. Ronnet Connington and Hyle Hunt haven’t bothered her since that awful day, and Ser Jaime is a stranger. Perhaps she is only being paranoid, and Ser Jaime is in earnest.

But why should he be? She humiliated him.

_ But he wants my father’s funding. _

Of course. That’s the reason for his sudden apology. 

She grips the back of the chair before her, willing herself not to throw it at him. “If you think I’m going to intercede with my father on your behalf--”

“I don’t,” he says bluntly. “Your father made his feelings plain, and I doubt even his beloved daughter could sway his opinion. I assure you, Miss Tarth, I only came here to apologize.”

Brienne still does not fully trust him. “Very well.”

His face clears. “Then you forgive me?”

“I accept it, but I do not forgive you.”

“That is all I can ask.” He gives a small bow. “I shall leave you, Miss Tarth, in better spirits, I hope, than I found you.”

Brienne keeps gripping the back of the chair as he leaves, shutting the door behind him. It is not until she knows he is out of the house that she goes to peer through the lace curtains.

Ser Jaime looks up at the house with an unreadable expression...and then walks away, seemingly lost in thought.

Brienne wonders what on earth he has to think about.

.

Brienne tells her father about Ser Jaime’s visit over dinner, for she knows that if the town gossips haven’t already mentioned it, the servants certainly will. 

Selwyn listens with a frown. “It seems to me as if he was trying to win you over so that you could win  _ me _ over.”

“That was my suspicion as well,” Brienne agrees. 

“Then I fear he may not leave us alone for a while yet.” He considers Ser Jaime as he chews. “You said he called on the Tarlys yesterday?”

“Yes, I have no idea why. He was not a stranger to them, nor was he an old acquaintance.”

Selwyn snorts. “Most like he was after one of the Tarly girls and what promises to be a bountiful dowry.”

“You think so?” she asks with interest.

“Why not? He’s clearly desperate for money, and if he cannot win sponsors, perhaps he hopes to marry one.”

Brienne almost feels sorry for Talla, Tara, and Tanda. They had seemed to like Ser Jaime; how much would they like him if they knew the truth? Would Mrs. Tarly be quite so gracious if he came calling?

“Do you think I should say something?”

Selwyn shakes his head, swallowing his food. “I don’t think that will be necessary. The girls may be taken by him, but he’ll have to get through Randyll first, and Randyll is not the sort of man to put up with the likes of Ser Jaime Lannister. He’ll have the man packing his bags soon enough.”

Brienne supposes her father is right; Randyll Tarly  _ is _ the type to dislike Ser Jaime, and she’s sure all it would take was one slip at dinner, one disagreement, for Ser Jaime to give up on the Tarly girls. 

And speaking of the Tarly girls…

She clears her throat. “I was speaking with Sam yesterday...he said that when he returns to the mainland, he might bring one or more of his sisters with him, and if I wanted to, I could accompany them?”

Selwyn considers her. “Is that what you would like?”

She grips her fork nervously. “Yes?”

Selwyn gives her a sad sort of smile. “I suppose I have been selfish, keeping you here. I want, so badly, for you to be happy, but sometimes I put my own happiness first. That is ill done.”

“Father, your happiness is important, too,” she chides him.

“Yes, but neither of us are getting any younger, my dear. You should explore the world while you have the chance. I can manage well enough on my own.”

“But that’s just it--will you be alright on your own?”

He huffs out a laugh. “I am middle-aged, Brienne, hardly  _ old. _ ”

“That’s not what I meant,” she protests, but some part of her does think he’s leaning more on the old side these days. And he may be a grown man, but he’s never been on his own, really. He had gone straight from his mother’s home to living with a wife to living with his children. Yes, there are servants to care for him, but they are not a mother or wife or daughter to him. 

“I just worry,” she continues, “that you’ll get lonely.”

“I won’t,” he assures her. “And I’ll have a heap of letters from you to read, won’t I?”

“Of course,” she says with a smile. 

Selwyn squeezes her hand. “There is no one on this earth I love more than you, my sweet girl. All I want in life is your happiness.”

Brienne can feel her eyes welling. “You know I shall never love another man as much as I love you, Father.”

“I know, my dear. I know.”

.

Brienne goes to the Tarly residence the next day to see if Sam will read her manuscript. She’s in good spirits, having managed to type out the whole thing, but her spirits are considerably dampened when she realizes that she is not the only person to call on the Tarlys.

Ser Jaime Lannister is sitting in the parlor when the maid announces her, and his face takes on an unpleasant smugness as he rises to greet her.

“Miss Tarth!” Mrs. Tarly exclaims. “What a pleasant surprise this is!”

“Mrs. Tarly,” Brienne says politely. “I’m so sorry for intruding when you had company.”

“You must not apologize when we are honored to receive you!” Mrs. Tarly ushers her into the parlor. “Please, sit, have some tea.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Brienne protests. “I only came to ask a favor of Sam.”

Mrs. Tarly’s delight grows. “I see! He is up in his room; I shall fetch him for you.”

“That’s quite alright--” Brienne starts to say, but Mrs. Tarly is already whisking away, leaving Brienne with Talla, Tara, Tanda, and Ser Jaime. 

_ Of course he’s here, the vulture, _ Brienne thinks.  _ He’s after a Tarly dowry, after all. _

Nevertheless, she forces herself to smile at the Tarly sisters, who are all watching her in interest.

“What sort of favor have you to ask Sam, Miss Tarth?” Tara asks.

Talla nudges her. “Tara, that’s rude.”

“No it isn’t!” Tara insists. “She said she had a favor to ask him! It’s not as if it’s a secret!”

“You don’t know that,” Talla says loftily. 

“Is it a secret, Miss Tarth?” Tara demands, as if to prove her point.

Brienne clears her throat, avoiding Ser Jaime’s eye. “Not really. Well,” she amends, remembering who she’s speaking to, “I would appreciate it if you did not mention it to your father. I only wanted Sam’s opinion on my...on my manuscript.”

The girls look rather bored by this confession. 

“Oh, is that all?” Tanda asks.

Brienne cannot help but smile. “Were you hoping for something scandalous?”

“She’s always hoping for something scandalous; nothing ever happens here,” Tara says wistfully. 

“Well, if anything scandalous  _ were _ to happen here, Miss Tarth would be the last person to be involved,” Talla says with the dutiful diplomacy of an eldest daughter. 

Brienne smiles again. “Thank you, Talla.”

“Is that true, Miss Tarth?” Ser Jaime asks, green eyes alight with interest. “There is a not even the  _ slightest _ touch of moral depravity about you?”

The Tarly girls burst into giggles, and Brienne prays for patience. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ser Jaime; I am quite dull.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Believe it,” she says flatly.

She is saved from further conversation by the arrival of Sam and Mrs. Tarly, the latter looking expectantly between the two.

_ She thinks we’re in love, _ Brienne realizes, somewhat embarrassed. 

“Hello, Miss Tarth.” Sam smiles at her. “My mother said you had a favor to ask of me.”

“Yes.” Brienne reaches into her satchel, withdrawing the manuscript. “I was hoping you would read over this for me. Not as an editor or anything, I just...wanted your thoughts as a reader. If you would be willing.”

Sam’s smile widens. “I was hoping you’d ask!”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “Truly? Oh, Sam, I would appreciate it so much.”

“Of course! Leave it with me, Miss Tarth, I’ll have it finished in no time.”

She hands it over gratefully. “Thank you so much, Sam. I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“What are friends for?” he asks cheerfully. 

Brienne closes her bag. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“You won’t stay?” Mrs. Tarly asks, looking crushed.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Brienne lies. “I’m so sorry, perhaps another time.”

“Of course. You know you are welcome here anytime, Miss Tarth,” Mrs. Tarly says with warm sincerity.

Brienne smiles. “I know. Thank you so much, Mrs. Tarly.” She bids farewell to the others and leaves as swiftly as she can without drawing attention to herself.

She had hoped to while away an hour or so with the Tarlys, but since that plan seems to have gone down the drain, she decides to pay a call of another sort.

.

She selects a great big bunch of roses at the florist’s, waving off Mr. Tyrell’s offer to send one of his sons to accompany her. It’s a large load, but she doesn’t mind carrying it herself. 

She’s halfway to her destination when a face she had hoped not to see again today peers through the roses. 

“Are those all for you?”

She winces. “Ser Jaime.”

“That is an exorbitant amount of roses,” he continues. 

“They’re for my family.” She tries to move past him, but he follows her.

“You’re a dutiful daughter.”

“I try.”

“May I help you carry them?”

“I don’t need any help, thank you, ser.”

“Are you sure? You’re carrying a veritable greenhouse.”

“Why aren’t you with the Tarlys?” she asks, unable to fully keep the irritation out of her voice. 

“I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“No?” she asks sarcastically. “And here I thought you were trying to secure a Tarly dowry for your mines.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “What makes you think that?”

She huffs out a derisive laugh. “Isn’t it obvious? You came to my father seeking funding, and when that failed, you went to one of the wealthiest families on the island that just so happens to have three daughters of marriageable age. At least one of them was bound to fall under your charms, right?”

Ser Jaime draws level with her, flustered. “That wasn’t my intention.”

She snorts.

“It wasn’t my  _ only _ intention,” he allows. “It was less to do with the dowry and more to do with...finding someone appropriate for my family. But yes, money is a consideration when marrying, as it is for many people.”

“It’s horrid,” she informs him. “Only marrying someone because of what they can offer you.”

“Do you think the Tarly girls are any less mercenary?” he demands. “Do you think they’d pay me half as much mind if I didn’t have a title? If my family wasn’t an old and noble one?”

“I think they’d pay attention to any handsome stranger from the mainland.”

A smug look takes over Ser Jaime’s face. “You think I’m handsome?”

Brienne shifts the roses, huffing. “I do not mean it as a compliment, Ser Jaime, only a statement of fact. You have been blessed with fortunate looks, and you are a stranger in our midst; naturally, three young ladies of marriageable age would look favorably upon you.”

“But not you.”

“I don’t look favorably upon men who insult me.”

That seems to chastise him. “Naturally. Of course.” He clears his throat. “This isn’t the way to your house.”

“No, it isn’t,” she agrees, and then comes to a stop before her destination.

Ser Jaime looks at the bronze lettering over the wrought iron fence, realization dawning. “Your family.”

“Dead. These roses are for them.”

Ser Jaime’s voice is softer now. “At least let me help you. I know how...lonely it can be. Paying a visit to one’s dead.”

Brienne wonders how many people Ser Jaime has had to bury. His parents, she presumes. Siblings? Friends? Lovers?

“Very well,” she says at last, but not without some reluctance.

Ser Jaime takes some of the roses, following her to her family’s plot. Wordlessly, he helps her arrange the roses in front of the headstones of her mother, Galladon, and her little sisters. He even steps back and gives her a few moments of silence with her family.

“I never really knew my mother and sisters,” she admits at last, knowing she must be the one to break the silence. “My sisters died in the cradle, and my mother died of childbed fever with the youngest. I was too young to truly understand.” She takes a deep breath. “But Galladon was my closest friend. He died ten years ago, but not a day goes by where I don’t think about him.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ser Jaime murmurs. “I lost a brother as well. And a mother, and a father.”

She turns to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she says, meaning it.

He nods, staring at his feet. “My mother died giving birth to my brother. And my brother and Father…” He hesitates, and when he looks up, he has a horrible, forced smile on his face. “Well, I shan’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, my sister and I are all that is left of my house.”

“I’m sorry.” She knows what it feels like, to be the last two members of a family. “You and your sister must be close.”

“We are,” he agrees. “We’re twins, you see. We came into this world together, and we’ve been by each other’s sides since.”

Brienne finds herself looking at Ser Jaime in a new light. “Galladon was four years older than me, but we were inseparable. When he died, it’s like he took a part of me with him.” 

“How did he die?”

She takes a deep breath. “He drowned.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She nods. “He went off by himself. He wasn’t supposed to. We were supposed to go together when we went to the beach, but I couldn’t go that day. I wasn’t feeling well, so he went alone.” She hesitates. “I often wonder...if I’d been there…”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he says at once. “You were children; even if you had been there, what could you have done?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Shouted for help, perhaps?”

Ser Jaime kneels down beside her, a steely expression on his face. “You could have died with him, do you know that?”

“ _ Or _ I could have saved him.”

“ _ Or _ you could have died with him,” he says again. “How old were you when it happened?”

She looks at Galladon’s headstone. “Eight.”

“Eight. Do you think it fair to blame an eight-year-old child for something beyond her control?”

She can feel her eyes start to water. “No.”

“Then why do you think it’s alright to blame yourself?”

She looks away, trying to subtly dab her eyes. She can hear a tsking sort of noise, and then Ser Jaime’s gloved hand is in front of her, offering her a handkerchief. She takes it, drying her tears.

“Thank you,” she says when she has recovered. “I do not know what came over me.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Miss Tarth,” he says wryly, helping her to her feet. “I understand you better than most.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Oh, I know so.” He offers his arm, and surprising herself, Brienne takes it.

“Will you join my sister and me for lunch tomorrow?” he asks. 

That surprises Brienne even more. “Why?”

“I’d like you to meet her...and I think she’d like to meet you, too.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a very unique person.”

Brienne frowns. “I won’t go if you’re just going to mock me--”

“I wasn’t mocking you,” he says, exasperation melting into pity. “I like you, Brienne Tarth, strange as that may sound. You’re one of the only people I’ve ever met who sees right through me. And it’s why I think you’d like my sister; you two have that in common.”

Brienne doesn’t know what to make of that. “Well…”

“We’re staying at the Rosby. You know it?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll be dining in the hotel’s restaurant at noon. I’ll have a third place set. Just in case.” He leaves her at the corner of her street with a bow. “Until we meet again, Miss Tarth.”

Brienne watches him leave, and it is not until he has disappeared from view that she realizes she’s still clutching his handkerchief.


	5. Chapter 5

Brienne spends all morning debating with herself whether or not she wants to meet Ser Jaime and his sister for lunch. He was rude to her, and she still hasn’t forgiven him, and he’s only here to marry a wealthy heiress. Then again, he had been kind to her yesterday, and they had bonded over the loved ones they’d lost, hadn’t they? At the very least, she should return his handkerchief to him.

But what if this is a mistake? 

_ But,  _ comes a voice in her head,  _ what if it’s  _ **_not?_ **

At eleven o’clock, she curses herself, dresses in her finest day dress--blue silk to match her eyes--and makes her way to the Rosby Hotel.

The Rosby Hotel is the finest on the island; tourists from the mainland often book reservations at the hotel, and the hotel itself boasts an elegant restaurant, a charming cafe, and a grand ballroom that hosts many events throughout the year.

Brienne has been to the restaurant a number of times, and always with her father; going without him makes her more anxious than it ought to.

The staff usher her right to the Lannisters’ table, a round table that is neither small nor large tastefully concealed in an alcove. 

_ They do not wish to be observed, _ Brienne notes, tucking that away for examination at a later point. 

Ser Jaime’s smile lights up his face when Brienne is announced; he stands up at once, going to take her hand.

“Miss Tarth,” he says warmly. “I’m glad you could join us. Please allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Cersei Lannister.”

Brienne turns to the most beautiful she has ever seen. 

Cersei Lannister is her brother’s twin, but Brienne can tell by looking at her that while they have each other’s golden hair and emerald green eyes, their personalities are polar opposites. Cersei has a coldness to her, and even when she smiles, taking Brienne’s hand, Brienne feels sure that the other woman does not show her true feelings easily. Her face, while perfect, seems a mask to Brienne that conceals her thoughts, and Brienne would pay dearly to know them.

“Miss Tarth,” Lady Cersei says in a soft but commanding voice, “what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. My brother has told me all about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Brienne jokes feebly as Ser Jaime pulls out her chair.

Lady Cersei only gives her a mysterious smile.

“I have offered nothing short of praise,” Ser Jaime says, taking his own seat.

“Well, now I know you’re lying.”

A waiter takes Brienne’s order before whisking away, leaving the party of three alone.

“So,” Brienne stabs in an attempt at conversation, “what brings you to Sapphire Isle, Lady Cersei?”

“Jaime and I go everywhere together,” Lady Cersei says without emotion. “We are all that each other has left in the world, you see.”

“I see.” Brienne fidgets awkwardly with her gloves. 

“Not unlike you and your father,” Lady Cersei continues. “You are all each other has left, is that right?”

“Cersei…”

“It’s alright,” Brienne assures Ser Jaime, who looks uncomfortable. “Yes, that’s true, my lady. My mother and siblings died when I was young.”

“No extended family?” Cersei asks almost clinically. 

Brienne shakes her head. “No, my grandparents are long since dead. I had an uncle who was in the navy, but it’s been many years since anyone has heard from him.”

“Would that we were so fortunate.” Cersei trades a look with her brother. “There are quite a lot of uncles and aunts and cousins in our family.  _ Too _ many, I sometimes feel.”

“You don’t like them?”

“Does anyone like vultures?” Cersei asks coolly. “As soon as our father died, our family descended upon Casterly Rock, determined to take it for themselves. Jaime and I were not yet of age, you see, so we needed a guardian. Our father’s will named our Uncle Kevan for that role, and Kevan felt that while serving as our guardian, he should move into the house. A logical step, one would think...except that he sent Jaime and me away to our respective boarding schools and moved his own family into the house. When we returned, of age and ready to accept our inheritance, Kevan made it clear that he and his wife and sons had no intention of moving out.”

Brienne gapes. “That’s horrible!”

“Yes, it is,” Cersei agrees. “He had Jaime shipped off to serve in the army, and he tried to marry me off to a boorish brute of a man.”

“How awful,” Brienne says, glancing between the two siblings.

“It was. Jaime and I eventually got back the house, but at no small cost.”

“What did you do?”

Cersei gives her a secretive smile. “That’s a story for another time.”

“The important thing,” Ser Jaime presses, “is that we have the house back, and the mines.”

“Yes,” Cersei agrees. “Casterly Rock belongs to the rightful Lannisters once more.” She turns abruptly to Brienne. “I hope you will come see it.”

“See it?” Brienne blinks. “I...I would be delighted, my lady.”

“It’s not quite up to its former glory,” the other woman continues, “but it’s still a magnificent house, passed down many generations. When the mines are up and running again, I have many plans to repair and modernize the house. It will be the mansion it was for many years, before it was corrupted by graspers and climbers.”

The way Cersei speaks of her family sends a chill down Brienne’s spine. She can’t imagine hating her own family so much...but then again, she can’t imagine having her family try to take her own home from her. How awful of their uncle. Brienne wonders what sort of fate befell him and his wife and sons. 

.

Overall, lunch is pleasant. Cersei still maintains that cool mask, but she seems genuinely interested in Brienne. Even if her manner is a bit abrasive, Brienne decides to like her. Maybe, despite her good looks, good title, and good upbringing, Cersei is just a bit awkward. Brienne can hardly fault someone for that.

When they have finished dining, Ser Jaime offers to escort Brienne home, but she politely declines.

“This is a small island, Ser Jaime, and the gossips are merciless,” she explains with a wry smile. 

“You will call on us again, I hope?” Cersei asks as she rises to take Brienne’s hand one last time.

“I would be honored, Lady Cersei.”

Cersei gives her a small smile. “Until we meet again, then.”

Brienne leaves the Rosby feeling lighter than she has in quite some time.

.

As soon as Brienne is out of earshot, Cersei turns to her brother. “She’s perfect.”

“I told you so.”

.

Brienne is two blocks from her house when she sees a familiar figure remove his top hat and wave at her. 

“Miss Tarth!” Sam cries, settling his hat back on his head and hurrying forward. 

Brienne meets him halfway, smiling. “Hello, Mr. Tarly.”

“I was just coming from your house!” he exclaims. “I read your manuscript.”

Her eyes widen. “Already?!”

“Oh, yes; it was very good,” he tells her with enthusiasm. “I haven’t had a chance to do a proper reread, but I had some thoughts I wanted to discuss with you.”

“By all means, let us discuss them!”

They turn back towards Brienne’s house, where Betsy brings them tea and Sam pulls out a notebook. Brienne is thrilled to see that he’s written pages of notes--a far sight better than the terse advice given to her by his father.

“I love the whole premise,” Sam tells her. “Very unusual, to make a ghost character who’s, well, an actual character, and not just a...threatening shadow, or a metaphor, or...whatever it is people make their ghosts. His relationship to the heroine felt very real. I think you have some wonderful moments of comedy and tragedy with the two of them sort of...adjusting to the new reality, as it were. And when they finally  _ do  _ adjust…”

“He passes into the spirit realm?”

“He passes into the spirit realm!” Sam exclaims. “I must tell you, I got a bit choked up.”

Brienne laughs. “No you did not.”

“Yes I did! I liked him so much, and I wanted ten more books of him and his sister solving mysteries!”

“With any luck, my readers will want the same,” Brienne says dryly. “But I’m glad to hear it elicited that reaction. I didn’t want it to be easy, his passing.”

“It wasn’t,” Sam assures her. “But at the same time, it felt...right.”

Brienne beams. “Oh, good. I wanted it to feel right.”

“My  _ one _ point of criticism,” he says, and she braces herself, “is that I can’t sort out how I feel about your love interest.”

She considers him. “Cavendish?”

“Yes. I can picture the other characters, but not him. I don’t think he has enough substance.” He hesitates. “Quite honestly, I think you could leave him out altogether.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

“It’s up to you, of course, but I think he either needs more fleshing out, or to be written out entirely.”

Brienne considers this. “Well...I think he should stay...I mean, shouldn’t he? The heroine always has to end up with the man she loves.”

“Well, between you and me, I think that’s a bit of a conservative mindset,” Sam says lightly. 

Brienne lets out a small laugh. “You’re very unlike your father, Sam Tarly.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.” 

She bites her lip, mulling over all he has said. “My only worry is...if I flesh him out...then he becomes a bigger part of the story. And then the story becomes about him and my heroine, and not about her and her brother.”

“Ah, yes. That’s the tricky part,” Sam agrees. 

Brienne leans back in her chair. “But if I write him out, then she ends up alone. Not just romantically, but with her brother passing over…well, who does she have?”

“She has friends. Perhaps you can flesh them out more and write out Mr. Cavendish.”

Brienne considers. “Perhaps. I...I do like that.” She hesitates, looking out the window. “But isn’t it...I mean...doesn’t she deserve to be happy?”

“Are we speaking of you or your heroine?”

Brienne starts. “My heroine, of course.”

Sam leans forward. “Anyone who can read can see the similarities between your characters and you and Galladon,” he says gently. “I wonder if your desire for Mr. Cavendish to be a part of the story is a sort of...prophecy for yourself, that you will find happiness the same way your heroine does.”

“Of course not,” she says at once...but could he be right? Could that scholarly mind of his have picked up on something she herself had not seen? “But everyone wants to be happy, don’t they? Nobody wants to end up alone.”

“Well, yes,” he allows. “I only wonder if...oh, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

He looks embarrassed now. “I don’t know if forcing a romance is really happiness.”

That confuses her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just...I don’t really believe that they’re in love. I believe Cavendish fits the bill for what a love interest ought to be, but there isn’t any depth to their relationship. It feels as if in your eagerness to create a happy ending, you’ve neglected to make your characters earn it, at least in respect to the romance.”

Brienne considers this. “I see.”

“You see, love is...it doesn’t just  _ happen, _ ” he explains. “I mean, yes, there’s love at first sight, but that isn’t enough to sustain a relationship. When two people are in love...they have to put in the work. You don’t  _ just _ love someone, you love someone, and you work harder to become a better person, the sort of person that  _ deserves _ that love.”

Realization slowly dawns. “You’re in love.”

Sam turns beet-red. “Oh, dear.”

She beams. “Who is it?!”

“I...please don’t tell anyone,” he begs. “Not even my mother or my sisters.”

“I shall take your secret to the grave.”

Sam pulls a ring off his finger, opening what turns out to be a locket. Inside is a portrait of a young woman with a soft kind of beauty to her.

“Her name is Gilly,” Sam explains. “She’s...unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.”

“You met her at university?” Brienne guesses.

“I met her on an expedition beyond the Wall. We, er, eloped.”

Brienne’s eyes widen. “You’re  _ married _ ?!”

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” he implores, eyes wide. 

“I won’t, but...aren’t you going to tell your family? At some point?”

“At some point,” he agrees. “When I can completely support myself...because as soon as my father finds out I married a penniless girl with a child born out of wedlock behind his back, you’d better believe I’ll be dead to him.”

Brienne raises an eyebrow. “Samwell Tarly, you are  _ quite _ scandalous.”

“I know; can you believe it of me, of all people?” 

Brienne lets out a small chuckle, and then it grows and grows into gales of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asks.

“Oh, it’s...so many people thought we were going to be married. You and me.”

Sam grins. “I know. My mother hasn’t stopped dropping hints.”

Brienne laughs even harder. “Oh dear, what a shock it will be when she learns the truth.”

“I know.”

The front door opens then, and a moment later, Selwyn appears in the parlor, his eyes lit up with excitement as he takes in his daughter and her caller.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Brienne and Sam exchange a look and then burst into laughter.


	6. Chapter 6

The days become cooler, the nights downright cold, and a white raven from Oldtown tells the islanders what they have already come to suspect: summer is over, and winter is coming. 

As a sendoff for the summer season, the Rosby Hotel announces a ball. They always throw one when the season is ending, and the last time they’d thrown one…

Well, Brienne doesn’t intend on going.

“But why not?” Ser Jaime asks the next time she dines with him and his sister, still in their secluded alcove.

“I don’t like balls.” It isn’t a lie. She hates the attention that comes with social events. It’s bad enough that even the most stylish dresses make her a laughingstock, but to be so tall and loom over the other women, over the men, even…

“Jaime will dance with you, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” Cersei says with her usual lack of emotion. 

Brienne flushes. “I assure you, that is not what I’m afraid of. I’m not afraid of anything. I simply don’t like balls.”

“Well, I can hardly argue with you there,” Ser Jaime allows. “I’ve never much liked them myself. But all the more reason for you to go, Miss Tarth; we can stand in a corner and laugh at everyone.”

Brienne scoffs. “I’m usually the object of laughter, ser.” She winces, realizing she’s given herself away.

“So that’s it, is it?” Ser Jaime asks, eyes wide. “Ronnet Connington and Hyle Hunt.”

Brienne winces again. “They were...unkind at the last ball.”

“They laughed at you?”

“Everyone laughs at me,” she mutters. 

Cersei considers her. “They won’t laugh if you come with us.”

“I am honored, Lady Cersei,” Brienne says humbly. “But I am afraid the laughter would extend to you both if I were to accompany you. No, I shall stay home, and work on my manuscript.”

“Always the bloody manuscript,” Ser Jaime laments. 

It’s true Brienne has been working on it more as of late. Sam has given her a lot to think about, and she’s been reading and rereading the story constantly, trying to pinpoint the problem and how she wants to resolve it. She still hasn’t found a solution yet, but she’s sure she will if she keeps at it. 

After lunch, Ser Jaime insists on escorting Brienne home, and because she’s in a good mood, she lets him. 

“Who are these idiots? Ronnet Connington and Hyle Hunt?”

She sighs. “Just...men.”

Ser Jaime frowns. “Connington. Wasn’t he one of the men on the board?”

“That was Jon Connington; he’s Ronnet’s uncle, but they aren’t close. Jon was furious when he found out.”

“That Ronnet was laughing at you?”

She hesitates.

Ser Jaime turns to look at her. “He wasn’t just laughing at you, was he?”

She takes a deep breath. “Some of the men on the island...they played this...stupid game at the last ball. They thought it great fun to pretend to be enamored of me...and I was foolish enough to believe them. Not that they were enamored, exactly,” she corrects, “but that they...I don’t know. Saw me as a woman, and not a freak. I suppose they were laughing about it amongst themselves, because Randyll Tarly found me during the ball and told me.”

Ser Jaime sucks in a breath. “Oh.”

“It was humiliating,” she murmurs. “It was my first social outing as a young woman, and not a child. My father had to take me home early, I was distraught.

“So you won’t even try to go to another ball?”

“What point is there? I’ll only be reminded of the last one.”

“That’s exactly why you should go,” he insists. “Make a good memory to spite the bad one.”

She shakes her head. “I’d rather stay home.”

Ser Jaime sighs. “I suppose there is no dissuading you. Stubborn woman.”

“You’ll have a much better time without me there,” she tells him. “The Tarly girls will certainly be happy to have you to themselves.”

“Is that a hint of  _ jealousy _ I detect?” Ser Jaime demands, looking delighted.

Brienne frowns. “No.”

“I think it is!” he crows. “I think you are jealous of the Tarly girls. Has my insufferable charm won you over yet?”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “ _ That _ will be the day, I’m sure.”

“You like me, Miss Tarth, even if you’re not bold enough to admit it yet.”

“I tolerate you,” she allows.

“That is all I can hope for, I suppose.”

.

The eve of the ball is dark and rainy, and Brienne would be lying if she said it did not give her a little satisfaction. While the islanders try to keep their hair and clothes dry, she will be curled up in front of the fire, reading a book and working on her manuscript.

“Are you  _ sure _ you don’t want to come?” Selwyn asks when she straightens his cummerbund in the hall.

“Oh Father, you’ll be just fine without me,” she teases.

He pretends to pout. “I don’t think I will.”

“I’m sure you will. All your friends will be there.”

“I’d  _ rather _ see my daughter there.”

“I’ll wait up for you, and you can share all the gossip with me when you get home,” she tells him, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “Now, off with you.”

With a grimace, Selwyn puts on his hat, stepping onto the front porch to open his umbrella. He waves to Brienne one last time before making a run for Jon Connington’s motorcar.

Brienne stands at the door, watching and waiting until the car is down the road before she withdraws into the dry warmth of the house. Bedrobe wrapped around her, she goes upstairs to get her manuscript, planning to bring it down to the parlor, where she’ll settle in with a steaming cup of tea.

She hears a noise from down the hall, near Galladon’s old room. 

“Father, did you forget something?” she calls, rummaging through her desk drawer to find a pen.

She can hear--or rather, feel--a presence standing in her doorway; when she turns at last, she sees a shadow she has seen before, black and bloody and nothing like the golden boy she once knew. 

He moves forward so suddenly that she can only let out a small scream, her back pressed against the wall as Galladon’s sour, briny breath envelopes her.

“Beware,” he croaks in the voice of a drowning boy. “Beware the rains of Castamere.”

He is gone in a flash, leaving Brienne with no other proof of his visit than the hairs standing up on the back of her neck.

_ Galladon. He came back. But why? What are the rains of Castamere? _

It’s a question she’s asked herself over and over. She has scoured every book on the island’s library and in its bookshops, she has asked all the learned men she knows, but no one is able to tell her a thing about Castamere or its rains. 

She knew what she heard ten years ago, and she knows what she’s heard again now. 

_ Beware the rains of Castamere. _

Betsy appears in the doorway, her face concerned. “Miss?”

“I’m alright,” Brienne says faintly. “I just got a chill.”

“It’s freezing in here,” Betsy agrees. “That Ser Jaime Lannister is here for you again, miss.”

That startles Brienne. “Ser Jaime?”

“Yes, miss. Just come in from the rain.”

Forcing herself not to shake, Brienne leaves her room, heading down the stairs to where Ser Jaime is indeed waiting for her in tails. 

“Ser Jaime?”

“Miss Tarth.” His brow furrows. “Are you alright? You look pale.”

“Just a chill,” she lies, drawing her bedrobe tighter around her. “Your timing is impeccable, you know, you  _ just _ missed my father.”

“Oh, I know,” he says frankly. “I waited for him to leave.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh.”

He clears his throat, moving closer to her. “Miss Tarth... _ Brienne _ ...I am begging you to come to the ball with me.”

She flushes. “Why?”

“For one thing, I can’t stand these islanders. I’ve never met a more insipid crowd of people.” He takes a deep breath. “And for another, I have become excessively fond of you.”

Her flush deepens. “Please don’t.”

“It’s not a joke,” he insists. “I’m not like Ronnet Connington and Hyle Hunt and those other stupid men who laugh at you behind your back.”

“You were rude to me the very first time we met.”

“I was,” he agrees. “So I have no reason to lie to you. I showed you my true colors the very first moment I met you, Brienne, and those fools waited until they’d bagged you neat as a hare in a snare.”

It’s true. Ronnet and Hyle and the others had been the pictures of charm and courtesy, and Brienne had only realized they were mocking her when someone else had pulled her aside. Ser Jaime has never hidden his true nature from her. 

She hesitates. “I...I don’t know.”

“Please, Brienne,” he implores. “Come with me. You won’t regret it.” When she doesn’t answer right away, he continues, “What else are you going to do? Sit here all night, alone with your books?”

Unwillingly, her gaze travels up the stairs to her freezing cold room.

_ Beware the rains of Castamere. _

She swallows. “I have to change.”

Ser Jaime smiles. “I can wait.”

Brienne turns up the stairs, heart pounding. This is the most impulsive thing she’s ever done.

She rather likes the feeling.

.

The ball is in full swing by the time Brienne and Ser Jaime arrive. She had settled on a blue evening dress, perhaps not as elegant or fashionable as some of the other ladies’, but that’s alright; Brienne has no desire to outshine anyone tonight.

She only gets passing glances at first, but as more and more people recognize her and the man on her arm, they get more and more stares. Brienne tries to ignore them, focusing on where Cersei is gliding towards them in a gown of red taffeta.

“You’re late,” she says, extending her cheek for her brother’s kiss. 

“Fashionably so,” Ser Jaime tells her. “What have we missed?”

“Nothing of note,” Cersei says wryly. “I am convinced that no man on this island knows how to waltz properly.”

Brienne finds herself smiling. “You would be correct in that assertion, my lady.”

Cersei looks pointedly at her brother. “Jaime is  _ excellent _ at the waltz.”

“Cersei,” he warns.

Cersei smiles. “Why don’t you show everyone how it’s done?” And with that, she sweeps off to the band, where Brienne realizes with horror she’s asking them to play a waltz.

“I can’t dance,” Brienne says at once.

“Yes you can,” Ser Jaime tells her, taking her gloved hands in his. “And even if you couldn’t, it’s not a complicated dance. Just six steps over and over again. And if it makes you truly uncomfortable, you can close your eyes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffs. 

Ser Jaime gives her a small smile. “Do you trust me, Brienne?”

She hesitates, hearing the chords of a stately waltz. “Against my better judgment, yes.”

“Then dance with me.”

And she does.

Ser Jaime is a magnificent dancer, leading Brienne with the easy agility of one who has danced this dance many times before. Though she is wobbly and uncertain at first, desperately trying not to look down at her own feet to make sure she is not stumbling, Ser Jaime’s arms are sure and strong, and soon she feels as light as a feather.

Brienne, who has always been too big, too ugly, too clumsy, too  _ everything, _ feels light and pretty, and when she catches Ser Jaime’s smile, she smiles back, her blue dress swirling around them. It feels as if they are the only two people dancing.

When the waltz ends, she realizes that they  _ are _ the only two people dancing, for everyone else is gathered ‘round and staring. 

Brienne can’t help it; she looks at Ser Jaime and laughs, giving an emphatic curtsy. When she looks up, there’s a softness in his eyes she’s never seen before. 

.

The ball is lovelier than Brienne could have possibly imagined. She spends almost all of it in Ser Jaime and Cersei’s company, laughing at their jests and watching the dancers. It is improper for a lady to dance with the same gentleman too many times, and no one else will ask Brienne to dance, but she doesn’t mind; she prefers sitting on the sidelines, watching the others. 

When she leaves at last with her father, Ser Jaime kisses her knuckles, and even through the fabric of her gloves, she feels the warmth of his lips. 

She can’t stop thinking about him or their evening together on the car ride home. Jon Connington and her father talk a little, but Brienne hardly notices, staring out the rain-lashed window. 

She’s so pleasantly tired when they get home that she goes straight to bed, all memories of her ghostly visitor completely forgotten. 

.

Brienne sleeps in the next morning; it being a Sunday and the morning after a ball, she assumed her father would do the same. Therefore she is surprised when she comes down to a late breakfast and learns he is already out.

“Where is he? Did he say?” she asks Betsy in surprise.

The maid shrugs. “Just said he had some business to attend to, and not to wait for him.”

Brienne considers this. Sometimes her father goes to his mens’ club, but he usually reserves that for working days. Then again, he  _ had _ been complaining about his clothes being tight when he was dressing last night, so perhaps he had gone to exercise. 

She doesn’t learn the true reason for his early morning errand until noon, when he comes home with a weary face.

“What is it?” she asks as they sit down to lunch. 

He hesitates. “Brienne...I have to tell you something that will not be very easy.”

She watches him uneasily. She suddenly recalls Galladon’s visit last night.

_ Beware the rains of Castamere. _

Does this have something to do with that?

“What is it, Father?”

He takes a deep breath. “Brienne...Ser Jaime Lannister and his sister are on their way off the island.”

Her eyes widen. “What…?”

“They are on their way because I asked them to leave.”

She grips her fork. “What do you mean?”

He looks exhausted. “My girl, let’s not pretend I don’t know about your...infatuation with Ser Jaime. This is a small island, Brienne, and the gossips are as eager for a scandal as gulls for a crust of bread. I know you’ve been seeing him.”

She flushes. “It wasn’t...it wasn’t like that, Father…”

Selwyn looks disappointed. “I thought you were smarter than that, Brienne.”

“I am smart!” she retorts, embarrassed. “It was never...improper, I always dined with them at the hotel, or Ser Jaime would walk with me--”

“But you’re in love with the man.”

She turns red, because she hadn’t realized until this very moment that her father is right. She  _ does _ love Ser Jaime. And she doesn’t think she’s wrong in hoping her affections might be requited.

Selwyn shakes his head. “It will never do, my dear. Ser Jaime is already married, you see.”

She stares at him, the words echoing oddly in her head. “W-what?”

“He’s already married.” Selwyn sighs, sipping his water. “I had my private investigator research him.”

“You had him investigated?” Brienne asks indignantly, but her hands are trembling, because  _ Ser Jaime is already married. _

“I had him investigated before he made his proposal,” Selwyn clarifies. “It’s very rare mainlanders ask for funding, and I wanted to know what sort of man he was. That’s how I learned about his failure to raise capital, and his family’s failing mines. When it became clear to me that he was not going to leave anytime soon, I had my man dig deeper.” He withdraws a newspaper clipping, setting it down on the table. Willing her hands to still, Brienne picks up the newspaper clipping.

_ Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock Weds Melara Hetherspoon of Lannisport _

The article is short, little more than a paragraph about the bride and groom and their modest ceremony, but Brienne hardly registers a word of it, for they all run together in a blur. 

_ Melara Hetherspoon. His wife. _

When she looks up at her father, he has a pitying look on his face.

“I know you have been...unlucky in love, shall we say,” Selwyn says uncomfortably. “I had hoped that you and Ser Jaime would tire of each other, but after the ball last night...I knew I couldn’t let it go on. Not if your reputation was to be saved.”

Brienne wipes her eyes. “And you asked him to leave.”

“And I asked him to leave,” Selwyn agrees. “That’s where I’ve been this morning. I took a long walk, asked the gods to give me strength, and went to see the Lannisters at the Rosby. For what it’s worth, your Ser Jaime looked distraught, but his sister has always struck me as a practical woman, and when I said that in no uncertain terms were they to leave as soon as possible, she agreed that it was for the best.”

Brienne starts to cry in earnest now. Cersei had known the whole time, and she let her brother string along Brienne. 

_ They really were after my money, _ she realizes sadly. 

Selwyn reaches across the table to grasp her hand. “I’m sorry, Brienne--”

But his sympathy only makes her cry harder, and she gets out of her seat so quickly she upsets the chair. She doesn’t look back, running out of the dining room, up the stairs, and slamming her door behind her. She throws herself on her bed and weeps.

_ Foolish, stupid girl, _ she tells herself, soaking her pillow with her tears.  _ Who could ever love a freak like you? _


	7. Chapter 7

Brienne spends the rest of the day locked in her room, drifting in and out of a tearful slumber. She’s humiliated at her behavior, and glad that Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei are leaving the island.

_ How could I have been so foolish? _ she wonders with growing unease.  _ I used to think I was clever, but they have made me feel like the stupidest person in the Seven Kingdoms.  _

Had it all been an act? The lunches at the hotel, the graveside confessions, Ser Jaime showing up at her door in the pouring rain and begging her to come to the ball with him, where they’d waltzed and Brienne had felt, for the first time in her life, like a beauty?

_ I probably looked like a sow, and I only felt beautiful because I was being tricked. He’s just like Ronnet Connington and Hyle Hunt, but this game had higher stakes. _

.

Brienne sleeps in the next day, and takes breakfast in bed late in the morning. Betsy brings up a tray with a plate of food and a letter.

Post is unusual on the island. It comes over from the mainland by the ferry, but Brienne doesn’t know anyone on the mainland. There is a post office on the island, and very occasionally the locals will send each other letters, but those are usually reserved for invitations. Curious, Brienne picks up the postmarked envelope, which has a return address at the Rosby Hotel.

She hesitates. It must be from Ser Jaime or Cersei. But why? An apology? An explanation?

She waits until Betsy is gone to open up the envelope, unfolding the piece of hotel stationery.

_ Dear Brienne, _

_ By the time you read this, I will be gone. Your father told Cersei and me that we were in no uncertain terms to leave the island in all haste. He discovered a secret that I should have entrusted to you a long time ago, and while he had no interest in hearing me out, I hope you will do me that courtesy now. _

_ I was married to Melara Hetherspoon for a handful of months. Her health had always been delicate, and it declined in those last few weeks. Casterly Rock, as you know, is not up to its former glory; she got a draught and died not long after. It tore me apart, and I blamed myself for not caring for her better, for not having the funds to make the house as comfortable as she deserved. I should have told you about her sooner, and I was planning on it; I delayed because speaking of her brings me no small amount of pain, and I never wanted the shadow of her death to sully our time together. I tried explaining this to your father, but he would not hear me out, and Cersei judged that it was better we do as he ask before he made a scene. _

_ He also made it clear that I was not in an economic position to provide for you, and with that, I agreed. I am not a rich man, as you well know, and as much as I would love to be the dashing lord to sweep you away from this place, I am afraid I lack the means to do it. That is why I am taking the afternoon ferry with my sister. I have posted this letter so that you will not read it until I have left, but gods know how the post works here. _

She finds herself laughing through disbelieving tears. That’s Jaime, alright. 

She should write back to him. She should tell him that she loves him, that she understands, that it doesn’t matter that he was married or that he has no money, she’ll have him all the same. Not that he’s exactly offered yet, but wouldn’t he? If he could? He wouldn’t talk about sweeping her away from this place if he didn’t intend to marry her, would he?

The Rosby must surely have a forwarding address. She can write to him, and the letter will arrive around the same time he will. 

She dresses quickly, only taking a few bites of toast before dashing out the door and heading for the hotel. She walks quickly, the autumn breeze keeping cool despite the haste with which she’s headed for the hotel. When she reaches the hotel at last, she moves towards the front desk--and stops short when she sees a familiar figure standing before her.

Ser Jaime.

Her breath comes hard as she realizes that he’s  _ here _ , on Sapphire Isle, and not across the bay on the mainland, on a train headed west for Casterly Rock.

“Ser Jaime?” she asks faintly. “You...you left…”

“I dreamed of you,” he says, as if this explains it. He takes a step closer. “Cersei and I took the ferry yesterday...but this morning, I sent her ahead on the train, and I came back here.”

She swallows. “My father--”

“I’m not afraid of him,” Ser Jaime says evenly. “Perhaps I ought to be. But what else can he do to me?” He’s quiet for a moment, and then he sinks to one knee. “Brienne--”

Her breath hitches. Surely he’s not proposing? Here, now, in the middle of a hotel lobby where gods and men can see him?

_ He does love me, _ she realizes faintly.

“--will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”

She nods, afraid to speak. He smiles, standing up to kiss her. It’s a light kiss, suitable for their public sphere, but it is the first kiss Brienne’s ever had, and her lips tingle long after Jaime has pulled away.

“I have a ring,” he blurts, reaching into his pocket. When he pulls it out, Brienne sees an enormous ruby set in gold. “It was my mother’s.”

She’s touched. “It probably won’t fit,” she says, touching the ring. 

“Then we’ll get it resized.”

She looks at him with a smile, hardly daring to believe this turn of events. Jaime is  _ here, _ and they’re going to be  _ married. _

.

They sit in the cafe for the better part of an hour, talking about the future...and the past.

“I’m sorry about Melara,” she murmurs when the subject comes up.

He shakes his head, staring into his cup of tea. “We’d known each other since we were young. Our families were close, you see, and she and Cersei were good friends.” He smiles. “I didn’t know it at the time, but Melara fancied me ever since we were children.” His smile fades. “We were happy for such a short time.”

“I’m so sorry,” Brienne murmurs, reaching across the table to rest her hand on his. “You’ve known so much tragedy in your life.”

“I’m done with all that,” he says firmly. “We will live happily ever after.”

She smiles. “Like the stories?”

“Very much so.”

A clerk from the front desk approaches them, his face grave. 

“What is it?” Brienne asks, her own spirits sinking.

The clerk takes a deep breath. “Your father, Miss Tarth...he fell.”

.

Brienne finds it strange--as many times as she’s lost a family member, she’s never once been to the morgue. 

It’s cold as an icebox when she walks in, and Jaime’s arm is her only source of comfort. She follows the constable into the morgue, heart pounding and stomach turning.

_ He fell. _

They found him in the washroom of his men’s club, lying in a pool of his own blood. 

“Looks like he slipped and fell,” the constable had reported with a pained expression. “His head…”

He hadn’t finished the thought. 

The club is slow on Monday mornings, the constable had gone on to tell her. No one had been in the washroom with him when it happened, and on slow days, the attendants can be a bit lax. If he’d cried for help when he fell, no one had heard it.

The coroner lets them through a pair of sliding doors, a grim look on his face as he leads them towards a table, on which lies a sheet-covered body that can only be her father’s.

“I’m afraid we’ll need you to identify the body, Miss Tarth.”

“Identify him?” Brienne asks faintly. “But...everyone said...it’s him…”

“Yes, but the nature of his injury...well...it’s just a formality,” the coroner says awkwardly. “Are you ready?”

She takes a deep breath and nods.

The coroner pulls back the sheet, and Brienne lets out a cry.

The right temple of Selwyn’s head is a sunken, bloody mass. His hair is flecked with white fragments that might be bone or porcelain, and his eye is so bloodshot as to be unrecognizable. Brienne looks away, pressing a hand to her mouth.

“Miss Tarth?” the coroner asks gently.

She swallows. “It’s him,” she manages. 

Jaime puts his arms around her, steadying her. “I’m so sorry, Brienne.”

Brienne can’t bear to speak. She can’t bear to think. She only wants this nightmare to end.


	8. Chapter 8

A month passes in a dismal, rainy blur. 

They bury her father in the plot next to her mother’s, but Brienne is so grief-stricken that she hardly remembers the funeral. She goes to bed as soon as the reception is over, and she threads in and out of consciousness for the next few days.

When she can find the strength for it, she meets with her father’s attorney and goes over the necessary legalities. Her father had left her everything in his will, naturally; Mr. Hunter still needs to draw up some papers, which he is awaiting from the mainland, but Brienne assures him there’s no rush.

Jaime spends every day by her side, even if it’s just to sit in comforting silence. She leans on him as she’s never leaned on anyone before, not even her father.

Three weeks after the funeral, Jaime kneels before her in the parlor.

“Let’s get married,” he says softly. “Soon.”

“Soon?” she echoes. The engagement has not left her mind, exactly, but she hasn’t given it much consideration with everything else going on.

He pauses. “Brienne...your father is dead. There is nothing for you here. Let’s go to Casterly Rock. Cersei and I will see to your every need. You can start a new life there. We both can. Put this miserable spit of land and its miserable memories behind you and come with me.”

She opens her mouth to protest...and then realizes that he’s right. They are still engaged, and the plan had been for her to move to Casterly Rock with him. Now that the last of her family is dead, why shouldn’t she? It may not be conventional or proper in some circles for her to marry now, but surely people would understand. And even if they wouldn’t, what does it matter? She’s never going to see this miserable island or the people on it ever again.

So she nods and says, “Yes. Let’s get married. Just a small ceremony, though.”

“Very small,” he agrees. “We can leave on the next ferry.”

“The sooner the better.”

.

It is a small wedding; the only witnesses are Mr. Hunter and Sam Tarly. Once the paperwork has been signed and the last of their luggage has been packed, they head for the dock and take the ferry to the mainland.

The house is still in Brienne’s name, but Mr. Hunter has assured her that he will handle all her affairs, including selling the house. The art, books, and all of her father’s things will be put in storage until such time as she can find a permanent solution, and all of her things that could not fit in her steamer trunk will be shipped to her. The last of the legal paperwork will also be sent to her, and once that has been done, her father’s money will be released to her in full.

Brienne has little care for her father’s money. Money is nice, of course, and Jaime will need funding for the mines, but at the moment, money is the last thing on Brienne’s mind. She wants to settle in to her new home, and spend every night falling asleep and waking up beside Jaime.

And speaking of falling asleep and waking up...

On their first night as husband and wife, sharing a bed in a rattling train car, Jaime kisses her cheek and murmurs, “We will have our wedding night another time, my dear. At a happier time.”

And Brienne, exhausted from a month’s worth of tears and grief, sighs in relief. 

.

Brienne spends the journey to Casterly Rock staring out the train window. She’s never seen the mainland before, but from the window of the train (something else she’s never seen before), she watches great cities, small villages, green fields, dark forests, and miles of shimmering lakes pass by. The most exciting of all, though, is when they pass through the mountains that Jaime tells her are the gateway to the west. 

“We’ll disembark at Lannisport,” he tells her. “From there, it’s a short carriage ride home.”

Lannisport is easily the biggest city Brienne has ever seen, but they don’t stay for long; Cersei has sent a carriage for them, and Jaime and Brienne climb inside almost as soon as they are out of the train station. Even so, she watches from the window as they pass tall buildings and neat houses stacked in rows. Women in elegant dresses walk along the streets, which are teeming with horses, carts, carriages, motorcars, and even bicycles. 

The city becomes less crowded, the buildings shorter and squatter as they move further north, until they are out of the city limits and all around them are rolling hills of patchy grass and overworked soil. Brienne stares at this, too, intrigued by the terrain. Sapphire Isle had been lush and green, and this place looks...well…

“There’s always a dry spell at the end of summer,” Jaime tells her, watching her face. “Before the rains come in. And when the rains do come, they are relentless. This will all be mud soon.”

The rolling hills give way to rock and quarry, and then they are passing over a bridge to a high and imposing house.

_ This  _ is Casterly Rock, then. Built quite literally upon a rock, the house is old and has undeniably seen better days...but there’s a dark sort of charm to it. It looks like something out of a novel, the kind where a kind but curious young heroine gets lured into a murderous secret. 

The carriage comes to a halt in front of the door; Jaime helps Brienne down from the carriage, laughing when she tips her head all the way back to look up at the mansion.

“I didn’t know it would be so big,” she admits.

He laughs. “An illusion, I’m afraid; the house is very thin, but very tall. My ancestors wanted to make sure that no matter what, it was always looking down at you. Shall we go inside?”

“Yes.” Brienne takes his arm, letting him guide her up the stairs and into the great mansion.

The house is unlike anything she’s ever seen before. It is indeed a tall house; a grand staircase winds up and up and up, with dozens of landings peering down at the foyer. The walls might once have been red; now they are a faint, smudged canvas of time. There is a fire roaring in a great hearth across the foyer, in what looks like a receiving room of some kind, and stained glass windows dot the walls, though it does not escape Brienne’s notice that some of the panes were hasty, ill-fitting replacements. 

Strangest of all, the ceiling does not seem to be entirely intact. Water stains have created holes in the ceiling, and through them, she can see gaps in the roof. No wonder poor Melara caught a draught; anyone would in this house. 

“It’s ugly, I know,” Jaime sighs.

“No!” she hastens to assure him. “It has...character.”

He laughs. “That’s what everyone says when a house is ugly. It’s alright, I know the house isn’t pretty. It’s in sore need of repairs.”

“It could use some work,” she agrees. “When Mr. Hunter sends the paperwork, I can pay for the repairs.”

“If you like,” Jaime says indifferently. 

A groaning creak from above draws their attention, and when Brienne looks up, she sees Cersei, looking regal as ever in a vermillion dress. 

“Jaime,” she says with a soft affection, a rare smiling gracing her lips. Her gaze turns to Brienne, the smile remaining in place but something in her face hardening nonetheless. “Brienne.” She descends the stairs, embracing her brother for a long moment. A very long moment, in fact.

Brienne isn’t surprised; Jaime and Cersei have lost all of their family, and they’ve only had each other for so long.

_ But now I’m here, _ she tells herself.  _ This house may be falling apart, but we will make it new, and fill it with love and happiness and warmth. _

Cersei releases Jaime at last, gliding over to kiss Brienne’s cheek and squeeze her hands. “Welcome, Brienne. I was so sorry to hear about your father.”

Brienne’s smile slides off her face. “Yes…thank you. I’m sorry that your last meeting with him had to be so…”

Cersei shakes her head. “It’s quite alright. He loved you dearly, and he was trying to protect you.”

Brienne feels an ache in her chest. “Yes.”

Cersei squeezes her hands again. “Shall I give you a tour? Or would you like to settle in first? The pipes are some of the only things that haven’t been damaged in this house, so I can promise you a hot bath.”

“Oh, a hot bath would be lovely,” Brienne sighs in relief. 

“Wonderful,” Cersei says with a smile. “Jaime, why don’t you show your bride to your room while I make some tea?”

Jaime’s eyes flicker. “Of course. This way, Brienne.”

Brienne follows him up the winding staircase, each step creaking and groaning as they pass over it. There’s certainly no sneaking around in  _ this _ house.

The floorboards creak and groan too, all the way down the carpeted hallway to the master bedroom. It’s as drafty in here as it is in the rest of the house, but once Jaime gets a fire going, it warms up nicely. 

“I’ll leave you to your bath,” he says, kissing her cheek and leaving.

Brienne disrobes cautiously, listening to the house creak and sigh in the wind. She puts on a dressing gown and goes to the bathroom, which is bigger than the one back at home.

_ Not home, _ she tells herself.  _ Casterly Rock is my home now. Sapphire Isle is just a place I used to live. _

She sits on the edge of the clawfoot tub, turning on the hot water tap. 

She can hear the pipes groaning behind the walls, and a moment later, water spits out of the tap. It evens into a steady flow, and once it’s hot enough, Brienne plugs the drain and lets the tub fill. 

She has the distinct feeling that she’s not alone, but she knows that she is. The floorboards are noisy, and she hadn’t heard Jaime or Cersei come over them. She doesn’t think they would, anyway; Jaime is too much of a gentleman to walk in on her taking a bath, and she highly doubts Cersei would be so forward. 

_ It’s just the house, _ she decides.  _ It’s old and noisy and the wind makes it feel like there’s a person here. _

When the tub fills, she takes off her robe and climbs in, sighing at the hot water. It eases the ache in her muscles from sitting for hours at a time, and warms the chill of the autumn wind away. She leans back against the porcelain, closing her eyes.

There’s a noise from the bedroom, and she knows she’s not imagining it now. She sits up, peering down the narrow corridor to the bedroom.

“Hello?”

Probably Jaime, having forgotten something. Or Cersei, bringing her tea.

But no one responds.

The room is dark, the only light the flicker of the hearth fire. Someone is either moving around in the room, or the flames are casting shadows. Perhaps Jaime didn’t mean for her to hear him and now he’s embarrassed?

The figure of a man,  _ definitely _ a man, lingers in the doorway. 

“Jaime?”

No response.

Too troubled to just sink back into her bath, Brienne climbs out of the tub, reaching for her robe. 

A gasping sort of shriek fills the room; horrified, Brienne turns around, and sees nothing there.

_ Just the wind, _ she tells herself...but it sounds hollow even to her. 

_ Home sweet home. _


	9. Chapter 9

Dinner is a quiet affair; for two siblings who have spent a month apart, Jaime and Cersei barely speak. Then again, they may have already caught up while Brienne was in the bath. And she supposes there isn’t much to say, really; her father is dead, she and Jaime are married, and now they’re all here in Casterly Rock.

The food is not nearly as rich or hearty as the meals Brienne is accustomed to, but she doesn’t mind; she knows that it’s the best Jaime and Cersei can manage, and she won’t begrudge them that. When her money comes in, then they can afford to eat well. 

After dinner, she politely excuses herself to bed, weary from the journey. Jaime joins her after she’s changed into her nightgown, bringing her some more tea and stoking the fire.

Brienne isn’t fond of the tea, as it’s bitterer than what she’s used to, but Jaime tells her it will keep her warm and stave off the draughts, so she drinks it for his sake. 

“Perhaps,” she suggests delicately, “you could put more milk and sugar in it next time?”

He gives her a strange sort of smile. “Of course.”

A sudden howling has Brienne gasping, nearly spilling her tea. “What was that?!”

“The wind from the sea,” he says, unaffected. “We’re right on top of the cliff face, and sometimes the wind rattles the whole house. You can’t see it now, but when there’s sunlight, you can see the ocean from our room.”

Brienne glances at the windows. She hadn’t noticed when they first arrived, but then, her mind had been on other things. “That must be pretty.”

“It is. I used to stare out the window when I was a child and pretend I was a gull flying over the sea.” He flushes. “That sounds silly--”

“It’s not silly,” she assures him, quite charmed by the thought of a young Jaime pretending he could fly. “Was this always your room?”

“Gods, no. I was in the nursery as a child, up in the attic. This was the master bedroom. My mother would let me come in here and play when my father wasn’t home. She had a difficult confinement with Tyr--with my brother, so I’d come keep her company.”

_ He can’t even say his name, _ Brienne thinks sadly. “How...how did your brother die? You never told me.”

Jaime is quiet for a long moment, brooding as he stares into the fire. “It’s an ugly story, Brienne. Not the sort of thing you want to hear before bed.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she says gently. “But I would like to know. I’m your wife now; you can tell me these things.”

He’s quiet for another moment. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough. “My brother Tyrion...well, he was a dwarf, and my mother died giving birth to him, and my father always resented him for both of those reasons. He called him a monster and a murderer, and he kept him locked away in the attic whenever he could.” Jaime clears his throat. “Tyrion was...rebellious. He was clever, and he read often, and he came to realize that he wasn’t the monster here. My father didn’t like that one bit, so he threatened to send Tyrion away to an lunatic asylum. Tyrion knew he would make good on it, too. So that night, while my father was in the water closet, Tyrion took a crossbow and shot him.”

Brienne stares at him in horror. Whatever she had been expecting, it hadn’t been  _ that _ .

“Tyrion denied it at first,” Jaime continues. “But everyone knew he’d done it. The courts allowed him to be sent to an asylum, because he was a child and they felt that he was...unwell.” He’s quiet for a moment. “And then we received word that he had died. He’d started a fire, gods know why, and perished with it.”

Brienne’s heart breaks for her husband. “Jaime...I’m so sorry.”

“As am I,” he says quietly. “I loved Tyrion dearly. I knew he hated our father, and I won’t lie and say I adored my father, but...I wish to the gods he hadn’t done it.” He rubs his forehead. “Everything went to hell after that.”

“That’s when your uncle and his family moved in and sent you and Cersei away?” she surmises.

He nods. “Yes.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaime. You have known one tragedy after another.”

“It’s alright,” he says quietly. “That’s all over now.” He stands up, forcing a smile. “I’m going to take a bath. Don’t wait up for me.”

Brienne wants to tell him that she wouldn’t mind waiting up for him...but she  _ is _ tired, and she imagines he must be, too. So she climbs into the enormous bed and lets the crackling of the fire put her to sleep.

.

She wakes to sunlight streaming in through the windows and a soft piano melody playing downstairs. Jaime is asleep beside her, so Brienne climbs out of bed quietly, pulling her robe on over her nightgown. 

She follows the sound of the piano into the parlor at the back of the house. She hasn’t been back here yet, but she can already see that the area is used often; bookshelves are crammed against the walls, couches and chairs leave little space for walking, all sorts of art pieces, sculptures, candles, and knickknacks line the shelves, and sitting beneath a ray of sun is Cersei, playing a beautiful pianoforte.

“Did I wake you?” Cersei asks without looking up.

“Yes, but I don’t mind. You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.” 

Brienne listens for a moment longer, unsure whether she should try to continue the conversation or not. “What is that piece? I’ve never heard it before.”

Cersei’s lips quirk in a small smile. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have. It’s a song about our family, back when we were somebodies.”

Brienne isn’t sure what to say to that. She wanders towards the hearth, looking up the portrait above the mantel. She sees a man and a woman; the man has a stern face, but the woman has a gentle smile. Golden curls cascade down around her shoulders, and on her finger is a ruby ring.

_ My ring, _ she realizes, looking at it. 

“Are these your parents?”

Cersei’s eyes flicker to the portrait. “Yes. Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna Lannister.”

“She’s beautiful,” Brienne offers.

“Yes, she was, wasn’t she? It’s a shame my brother killed her. Oh, I know Jaime’s told you about Tyrion, the little demon.”

Brienne stares at Cersei in surprise. “He was a baby.”

“She died because of him,” Cersei says in a flat voice. “That makes him a murderer.”

Brienne hesitates. “My own mother died in childbed, with my youngest sister.”

“Then you know the pain,” Cersei says indifferently. “I’m glad Tyrion is dead. It wasn’t enough that he killed my mother, but to kill my father, too…”

Perhaps Cersei does have a good reason to hate her younger brother. 

“Were you close to your father?” Brienne asks, sitting on the couch closest to the piano.

“No one was ever close to my father, but I admired him. He ruled the mines with an iron fist. We never wanted for anything when we were children. But when Tyrion killed him, my uncle took over the mines, and their decline was rapid, to say the least. The workers didn’t respect my uncle the way they respected my father, and the work suffered. Slowly the mines began to collapse, almost as if they were telling my uncle that he was not the rightful Lannister.”

It occurs to Brienne for the first time since she’s known the other woman that perhaps Cersei is a bit...unwell. She seems to take her family’s decline quite personally, as if it was something that someone intentionally did to her, and not an unfortunate series of events that culminated in her current state. But perhaps it’s just hard to admit to herself that her life is not as grand as it used to be. Perhaps it’s easier to blame someone, rather than accept the harsh reality she has been given. 

“Can you show me around the house?” Brienne asks, hoping to take Cersei’s mind off of her past--and her present.

Cersei’s lips quirk. “There’s not much to show, I’m afraid. Many of the rooms have been damaged from one thing or another--water, wind, fire.”

“Fire?”

“Oh, all old, great houses have had fires.” Cersei flicks her shoulders in a careless shrug. “We just haven’t had the funds to repair the damage. We keep those rooms locked or boarded up. The master bedroom and my room are the only two bedrooms that are habitable, you know. There’s this room, the dining room, the kitchen...and the attic, which Jaime sometimes uses for a study.”

Brienne is disappointed to hear that in this whole, great big house, only a handful of rooms are functional. “That’s such a shame.”

“Isn’t it?” Cersei asks with the same indifference. 

The stairs creak and groan, and a long moment later, Jaime appears in the parlor, smiling at the sight of wife and sister. 

“Good morning, ladies. Brienne, after breakfast I thought I’d take you down to the beach, if you’d like.”

“There’s a beach?” she asks in surprise. 

“It’s not much of a beach,” he admits. “It’s at the base of the cliffs, and it’s mostly rock, and a long walk besides, but--”

“I’d love to see it.”

He smiles again. “Excellent.”

So after breakfast, Brienne puts on a warm dress and cloak and follows Jaime down a steep, winding footpath.

“Cersei and I used to come down here as children,” he tells her as they descend. “We’d go swimming in the ocean, even though our mother always asked us not to. The water was too rough, she’d say. It probably was. We probably should have listened. But we were never very good at listening. Cersei used to dare me to do things--jump off the cliffs, climb them, and so on. And I always did them, because I wanted to prove I was brave.”

“I don’t know if I’d call jumping off the cliffs  _ brave, _ ” Brienne tells him. “Reckless, perhaps.”

“I was certainly that,” he allows. “Cersei was never afraid of anything, though, and I wanted to be like her.”

“Did  _ she _ jump off the cliffs?”

“She did. She also once put her hand in a lion’s cage.”

“A what!”

“We went to the zoo,” he explains. “And there was this lion in its cage, and Cersei dared me to get close to the bars. I did, and it frightened me, so I dared her to put her hand in the cage. I didn’t think she’d  _ do _ it...but she did. Oh, don’t give me that look,” he says when he sees Brienne’s wide eyes. “The lion was so old and sad looking, I don’t think it even had teeth. It just sort of...stared at Cersei. Maybe it was blind.”

_ Or maybe even the lion knew not to cross her, _ Brienne thinks. 

They finally reach the beach, a small, rocky area at the base of the cliffs. There’s what looks like a dock, or part of one; from the looks of things, it’s long been abandoned and left to the ocean’s mercy.

Brienne points. “Were there boats here once?”

“There was one. My Uncle Gerion was fond of sailing, and he had a little sail boat he used to keep here.”

“Is it still here?”

“Afraid not; it got hopelessly smashed up by a storm. They never did find Gerion’s body.”

That surprises Brienne. “Oh. I’m...I’m so sorry--”

“It’s alright,” he says gently. “I never knew the man. And he died doing what he loved, I suppose.”

“Still…”

“Yes, I know. Riddled with tragedy, us Lannisters,” he says with a wry smile. “The autumn winds are always rough, and winter is even worse.”

“It seems so calm down here,” she remarks. “I mean, even with the ocean, it feels…”

“Like home?”

Her heart aches. “Something like that.”

Jaime squeezes her hand. “Do you miss it? Sapphire Isle?”

“Honestly...no,” she admits. “I miss the...familiarity of it. Most of all I miss my father.” Her voice catches, as it always does when she talks about him. “But being there now would just be too painful for me. You were right to bring me here. To put the past behind me.” She rests her head against Jaime’s, holding his arm. 

He turns his head, forehead pressed to hers. They’ve only kissed a handful of times in the whole time they’ve known each other, but Brienne feels confident as she goes to kiss him now. They’re utterly alone here, just her and Jaime.

He breathes deeply, his hand gripping her waist. “You’re...so different,” he murmurs.

She smiles in puzzlement. “From who?”

He shakes his head. “From...from everyone.” And then he’s kissing her again, but deeper and hungrier than before.

Brienne lets the kiss consume her, her fingers tangling in his hair as his hands squeeze her hips, pressing her body against his. There are too many layers between them for her to feel anything, but she can tell that the kiss has taken a hitherto unexplored direction. With an uncharacteristic excitement, she wonders if they’ll consummate their marriage right here on the beach. 

As if having the same thought, Jaime pulls away, looking flushed. “We should continue this...another time.”

Brienne bites her lip. “Right.”

“I don’t...want our first time together to be on the ground,” he explains, still flushed. “You deserve better than that.”

Brienne smiles. “If you say so.” She wonders if he’s embarrassed. It’s not as if he’s never been with a woman before--he was married to Melara, and there may have been other women besides. But maybe the outdoors aspect is too much for him. 

It doesn’t matter. There will be plenty of time for them to pick up where they left off. They have the whole rest of their lives together.

.

She and Jaime spend a long, happy hour at the beach, small as it is. Sometimes they can see ships on the horizon, heading to and from Lannisport. If Brienne squints, she can see the coast to the north and south of them, where Jaime tells her there are other cities, though none so great as Lannisport.

“Lannister, Lannisport. Which came first?” she asks.

“The Lannisters, and before them were the Casterlys,” he explains. “They were a great family who lived on the Rock, until a man named Lann the Clever came along. There are different versions of the tale; some say that he snuck into the Rock and whispered threats to the Casterlys while they slept and moved gold from one brother’s room to another, until they were all at odds with another and drove one another out. Another version says he filled the Rock with mice and rats to drive them out. One version says he brought a lion into the Rock to devour the men, and then he had his way with the women. And then another version says he lay with the maidens while they slept, and nine months later when they gave birth to golden haired children, they swore they’d never been with a man. But the maesters say that’s all preposterous, and the more likely story is that he was a vassal of Lord Casterly, got one or more of his daughters in the family way, and convinced the lord to let him marry the girl to spare her reputation. If she was Lord Casterly’s only trueborn child…”

“Then Casterly Rock would have passed to Lann’s wife and their children,” Brienne finishes. “I see.”

“Whatever the case, the Casterlys haven’t been around for hundreds of years, and it’s all been Lannisters in the meantime. So many Lannisters, in fact, that they couldn’t all fit in the Rock, so the younger sons and daughters had to build homes to the south, and thus sprang up Lannisport.” He looks up at the house. “We should get back.”

Brienne is reluctant to leave the beach, but she supposes they can come back anytime. She takes his arm, walking with him up the winding footpath to the dark and dismal house.

Cersei has a fresh pot of tea waiting for them when they come in. 

“I know it’s bitter,” she tells Brienne, pouring a healthy dose of milk into Brienne’s cup, “but you’ll get used to it. It’s so good for the body, especially as the cold weather sets in.”

“What is it?” Brienne asks, watching the milk swirl around her cup.

“Firethorn berries. Family secret,” Cersei says with a wink.

The twins are both watching Brienne expectantly, so she takes a mincing sip. It’s not bad with the milk, but there’s still a bite. Jaime and Cersei are still watching her, so she takes a much deeper sip, ignoring the bitter taste. They both look relieved, and it breaks her heart a little. Had Melara disliked the firethorn berry tea as much as she does? Had she refused it for its bitterness? If she drank it from time to time, would she have been spared her cruel fate? 

_ I won’t be like her, _ Brienne thinks.  _ I’ll be strong, and survive the winter. No one else will die in this house. Not if I can help it. _

.

Brienne wakes in the night to the wind howling against the house. She knows it’s only the wind, but its ferocity startles her, and in her fear she reaches for her husband.

“Jaime--”

But the bed is empty beside her. 

She’d gone to bed early, but he was in the middle of a game of chess with Cersei and apologetically said he’d be up later. She hadn’t minded; she’d fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

But that had to have been hours ago. The fire in the hearth is little more than embers now, and it had been going strong when she’d gone to bed. He and Cersei can’t still be playing chess, can they?

Unsettled for some reason she can’t quite place, she gets out of bed, peering down the corridor at the water closet. The door is ajar, moonlight coming in faintly through the window. 

Empty.

Perhaps he and Cersei are still in the parlor. Brienne would like their company right about now, with the wind shaking the house and setting her teeth on edge. She lights the candelabra by the bed and walks out onto the landing. 

The house is dark and quiet--or as quiet as it can be with the noise outside. She can’t see into the parlor from up here, but she would be able to see if the hearth fire was burning, and it isn’t. There are no other lights to indicate that anyone else is awake, either. 

So where are Jaime and Cersei?

Brienne knows she shouldn’t be afraid; they’ve lived in this house since they were children, and there are so many parts of it that she hasn’t even seen yet. She’s still a newcomer here, practically a stranger, and she’s only seen a few rooms so far. 

Perhaps they moved to the kitchen to have a cup of tea, or to another room where their voices would be less likely to carry. She starts to move towards the stairs, and then hears whispers coming from down the hall in the opposite direction. Curious, she moves towards the source of the noise.

The door is slightly ajar, and dark inside, but Brienne definitely hears voices coming from inside. She pulls at the handle--and yelps when the door yanks away from her, slamming.

She stares for a long moment before seizing the handle again and pulling.

There’s no one on the other side. In fact, there isn’t even a room on the other side--just a linen closet with dusty shelves, a gramophone player, and a box. Brienne hesitates, and then reaches for the box, removing the lid. There are six rolls inside, which she soon realizes are wax cylinder recordings that correspond with the gramophone player. She’s only seen a handful of them before. She wonders who they belong to. Jaime? Cersei? Or one of their many, many long dead relatives? Deciding that it’s not her place to pry, she sets the lid back on top of the box and closes the door.

The floor groans ominously beside her, and suddenly a bloody hand emerges from the floorboards. She stumbles back, eyes wide as she sees a woman pull herself out of the floor, gasping and groaning. 

Brienne turns and runs back to the bedroom, closing the doors, leaping into her bed, and pulling the covers up to her chin like a frightened child. The door rattles as if someone is trying to get in...and then the rattling stops and the bloody presence on the other side is gone.

Terrified out of her wits, Brienne buries her face in her pillow and begs the gods to let her out of this nightmare.

.

When she wakes in the morning, she really thinks that she may have dreamed everything last night. The house is still and calm, Cersei playing piano downstairs, sunlight streaming invitingly through the bedroom windows. Brienne sits up and looks around the room for a long moment, wondering what possessed her to have such a dream.

But was it a dream? It had felt so real.

But of course it was a dream. People don’t climb out of floorboards. Linen closet doors don’t just slam closed of their own accord. It was just a dream. 

Yet as Brienne heads down for breakfast, she cannot help but glance down the corridor and wonder…

Slowly, she heads for the linen closet. It looks exactly as it had in her dream last night...and when she opens the door, she sees the same gramophone player, the same box, and inside the box are the same six wax cylinders.


	10. Chapter 10

Brienne trembles as she makes her way down the stairs, the creaks and groans setting her teeth on edge more than usual. 

The presence of the cylinders in the linen closet mean one of two things. Either Brienne experienced a prophetic sort of dream, telling her where the cylinders would be located…

Or she really did encounter a ghost last night. 

It shouldn’t be that surprising. She’s seen ghosts before, hasn’t she?

_ But Galladon was different. He’s my brother, and he came to give me a warning. _

But the woman she’d seen might have tried to warn her of something, too. She’d run away before she could speak. Could she even speak? She’d only gasped and groaned. 

Brienne is shaking like a leaf by the time she reaches the parlor. Cersei barely looks up from the piano. “Good morning, Brienne.”

“Good morning.” Brienne glances around. “Where’s Jaime?”

“He went down to the mines. He didn’t say when he would be back, so it’s just you and me for the time being.” Cersei looks up, her eyes widening slightly. “Are you alright? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

_ You have no idea. _ Brienne wonders if she dare confide in Cersei, and then decides against it. “I had a bad dream. What is the name of the song you’re playing? You were playing it yesterday too, weren’t you?”

“Ah, yes.  _ The Rains of Castamere. _ ”

Brienne is chilled to the bone. “The... _ The Rains of Castamere?” _

_ Beware the rains of Castamere. _

“Yes,” Cersei says, oblivious to Brienne’s distress. “You see, long ago, the Reynes of Castamere were bannermen to the Lannisters. Lord Reyne sought to become greater than Lord Lannister. Well, my ancestors wouldn’t have it. They killed every last member of House Reyne, every last one of their knights and servants. The song was composed in my forefathers’ honor.” She begins to sing.

_ “And who are you, the proud lord said _

_ That I must bow so low?  _

_ Only a cat of a different coat, _

_ That’s all the truth I know _

_ In a coat of gold or a coat of red _

_ A lion still has claws _

_ And mine are long and sharp, my lord _

_ As long and sharp as yours _

_ And so he spoke, and so he spoke _

_ That lord of Castamere _

_ But now the rains weep o’er his hall _

_ With no one there to hear _

_ Yes now the rains weep o’er his hall _

_ And not a soul to hear _

_ And so he spoke, and so he spoke _

_ That lord of Castamere _

_ But now the rains weep o’er his hall _

_ And not a soul to hear. _

The autumn rains are so terrible here,” she continues nonchalantly, fingers still dancing across the ivory keys. “It’s said that it’s the ghosts of House Reyne trying to seek revenge by tearing down the house.”

Brienne shivers. “That’s a chilling thought.”

Cersei glances up at her, eyebrows raised. “You  _ look _ chilled. Are you alright, my dear?”

“I...I don’t feel well,” Brienne admits.

Something flashes across Cersei’s emerald green eyes. She stands up, ceasing her playing. “You should get right back into bed. I’ll bring you some porridge, and some tea. You look as if you’ve caught a draught. Go on, up the stairs you get.”

Brienne makes her way back up the stairs, still trembling--but it isn’t from a draught. 

_ Beware the rains of Castamere. _

But what does it mean? Is Brienne going to die here, a victim of an inescapable draught just like Melara? Will the rains truly tear down Casterly Rock in vengeance for a massacre committed so many years ago? 

_ Galladon, what did you mean? _

She undresses with shaking hands, pulling on her nightgown and climbing under the covers. 

Cersei appears not long after, bearing a tray of hot porridge and a pot of tea. To Brienne’s surprise and relief, the other woman sits on the edge of the bed, spoon feeding Brienne and holding the cup to her lips.

“This is very kind of you,” Brienne murmurs, rather liking being nursed like this. It reminds her of her father...and vaguely, her mother.

“We can’t have you getting ill now, can we?” Cersei asks soothingly. When the porridge and tea are gone, she stokes the fire, adding a couple logs to bring it back to life, and takes away the tray. “You get your rest now. I’ll check in on you from time to time. You’re in good hands, Brienne.”

Brienne resists the urge to cry. “Thank you, Cersei.” Settling back against the pillows, she closes her eyes and wills herself to find peace.

.

Brienne drifts in and out of sleep all day and well into the night. The room is at turns boiling hot and freezing cold, and when she’s lucid enough, she thinks that she really must be ill. 

Cersei does make good on her promise to check on Brienne, straightening the bedclothes and pressing porcelain cups to Brienne’s lips. Brienne sputters and gags on the bitter tea, but she drinks as much as she can, knowing it may be the only thing to bring her out of this illness.

She wakes fully in the middle of the night, coughing on something hot and sticky in her throat. She sits up, coughing and spitting until her throat is clear. In the moonlight, she sees a dark stain on her pillow.

_ Blood. _

“Jaime,” she gasps, turning to her side...but Jaime isn’t there.

_ He wanted me to get my rest, _ she thinks, wishing he were here. He would soothe her fears, tell her that a little blood doesn’t mean anything, that she just has a chill, that she’ll be alright. 

She gets out of bed, far too awake and afraid to go back to sleep now. She lights the candelabra, deciding that she’ll try to find Jaime or Cersei, and is halfway out the room when an invisible hand grabs her wrist, pulling her roughly to the floor and extinguishing the candelabra with one gust of wind.

Brienne begins to tremble anew, for this is no westerly wind, no house in disrepair. This is a spirit, and probably the one she saw last night.

There’s a shout from the water closet. Brienne forces herself to her feet, hobbling down the narrow corridor. On the toilet, leaning against the wall, is a man with two arrows sticking out of his belly and his groin.

_ Not arrows, _ she realizes.  _ Crossbow bolts. _

Slowly, the ghost of Tywin Lannister groans and comes to life, staring at her. Her breath hitches, and she stumbles back as he gets to his feet, walking on unsteady legs towards her.

_ “Leave here now,” _ he moans horribly.

Brienne stumbles out into the corridor, where she hears another set of unsteady footfalls; when she turns, she sees a woman with dark hair and pale skin, too faint to be real. The woman clutches her belly, stumbling towards Brienne.

“His blood will be on your hands,” she tells Brienne, blood running out of her mouth and streaming down her chin.

_ “Jaime!” _ Brienne screams, running in the opposite direction.

Jaime appears so suddenly that she screams again, nearly batting his hands off of her when he reaches for her.

“Brienne!” he shouts, eyes wide. “What on earth is the matter?”

“A woman in the corridor!” she cries, turning to point a trembling finger down the corridor.

But there’s no one there. Just an empty corridor, and at the far end, a window lashed with rain. 

“She was there!” Brienne insists, hysterical now. “And there was a man in the water closet--”

“A man in the water closet?” 

Brienne turns at the sound of Cersei’s velvety voice. The other woman is on the stairs, a blank look on her face. 

“You must still be unwell, Brienne. You’re seeing things.”

“I’m not--” Brienne protests, but Cersei heads down the stairs towards the main floor.

“I’ll make some tea.”

It’s all Jaime can do to lure Brienne back into the bedroom; she won’t set foot inside until he’s surveyed it for himself, assuring her that there are no men or women inside. Only then does she allow herself to sit by the hearth, watching nervously as he starts a fire.

“I can’t stay here,” she babbles, knowing even as she says it how mad she must sound. “I saw the woman last night, too, climbing out of the floor...she was trying to warn me, or hurt me, I don’t know--”

She’s still babbling when Cersei brings up a tray, pouring her a cup of tea.

“Nonsense,” the other woman says sternly. “You had a bad dream, that’s all. You have a fever. You’ve been unwell.”

“I  _ know _ what I saw,” Brienne protests, but a niggling part of her wonders if maybe her sister-in-law isn’t right. She’d known the story about Tywin Lannister, and she’d known about Melara Hetherspoon...is it possible her mind really did conjure up their ghosts?

“You just need some fresh air,” Jaime says optimistically. “I need to go to Lannisport tomorrow to pick up parts for the machine. We can get out, you can see more of the city. You’ll feel much better.”

Brienne  _ would _ like to see Lannisport, and get away from the house for a bit. 

“Well…” she says reluctantly. “I...suppose…”

“It’s settled,” he decides. “We’ll go tomorrow, and you’ll forget all about this horrible nightmare.”

_ It is a nightmare,  _ she thinks,  _ but not the kind you wake from. _

.

She and Jaime don’t leave for Lannisport until afternoon. She sleeps late into the morning, exhausted after terror the night before, and it takes her a few hours to feel well enough. 

It makes little matter; Lannisport is not far, and they can be there and back again before mid-afternoon, though Brienne hopes they’ll stay for much longer. She and Jaime take the cart, so he can load his machine parts onto it; she keeps her lap blanket drawn tight around her, smiling as they pass through the open country. It’s far from the most picturesque land, but there’s a certain charm about it. Or perhaps she’s just happy to be anyplace that isn’t that rotting house.

She still hasn’t sorted out whether or not she believes in the ghosts she encountered. Of course Jaime and Cersei won’t believe what they can’t see...but why would the ghosts appear to Brienne, and not the twins? They’ve been living at Casterly Rock all their lives, why shouldn’t they have seen ghosts before now?

_ Galladon, _ she remembers. Her own father had never seen Galladon, as far as she’s aware. Perhaps there’s something about her that makes her able to see, well, what others can’t. Like a sort of medium.

It gets the cogs turning, and for the first time in a long time, she thinks back to her book. She’d kept the manuscript in her steamer trunk, and it sits there even now, but she hasn’t opened it once. She’s had too much to occupy her mind. Maybe when they get back, she can try writing again.

The skies are a dark grey when they pull up in front of the post depot, but that isn’t unusual; the weather changes constantly here. Just because it looks like it’s going to rain doesn’t mean it will.

Nevertheless, as Jaime helps out Brienne, a red-faced man with a jovial smile calls, “You’ve excellent timing, Ser Jaime; a few more minutes and it’ll be raining cats and dogs!”

“Well, you know what they say about the westerlands,” Jaime calls back. “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes.”

The man lets out a booming laugh. “Your parts are here; I’ll rustle up some lads to load them into your cart.” He looks at Brienne, quickly hiding his double take. “You must be Lady Lannister, then?”

Lady Lannister. The title is still strange to Brienne, who has answered to Miss Tarth her whole life. But Jaime squeezes her arm and says, “That’s her.”

“You’ve some mail, ma’am!”

Brienne follows the man, who she now deems to be the postmaster, into the depot while Jaime and some boys load up the parts.

“Two certified letters from your solicitor,” the postmaster explains, reaching into a honeycomb of mail slots, “so we’ll need you to sign for them if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Brienne takes the proffered pen and signs her name, scratching out the  _ T _ for Tarth and writing  _ Lannister _ beside it.

“And you’ve got a letter from Riverrun, too.”

“Riverrun?” she asks in confusion. “I don’t know anyone in Riverrun.”

“Well, respectfully, Your Ladyship, it appears that you do.” 

_ Lady Lysa Lannister of Casterly Rock _

Brienne starts to tell him that he’s wrong, but what use is there in that? It’s addressed to a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and the man is just doing his job. Perhaps it’s Kevan Lannister’s wife, or one of the other relatives who had tried to close in on Casterly Rock after Tywin’s death.

“Thank you,” Brienne says politely, accepting the letter.

It is at that moment that a dull roar fills the air, and the sky opens up to a torrential downpour. 

Brienne wanders over to Jaime, who’s watching the rain from beside his cart, thankfully already beneath the depot’s roof. “Oh, dear.”

“Like I said,” he insists, “wait ten minutes.”

.

An hour comes and goes, and the rain shows no signs of stopping. Jaime watches with dismay as the dirt roads become muddy rivers, effectively barring them from leaving; even if the rain miraculously stopped, the cart would never make it through the mud.

“We’ll never get home tonight,” he says at last. “We’ll have to stay at a hotel, and pray to the gods the rain lets up overnight and the roads are safe to travel tomorrow.”

Brienne is already sending up a prayer to the gods, one of thanks for letting them stay in the city tonight. It will be so good to sleep in a  _ normal _ room, not the cold, dismal room at Casterly Rock, where the ghost of her murdered father-in-law asks her to leave in the middle of the night. Yet she schools her face into a neutral expression so that Jaime won’t see how happy she is. She knows that Casterly Rock is his home, and she doesn’t want to upset him by showing how much she dislikes it already. 

The postmaster is kind enough to give them directions to the nearest hotel and lend them umbrellas while promising to keep the cart and the parts safe; arms around each other, Jaime and Brienne make a dash down several blocks to the Red Lion Inn. They book a room for the night, and after they’ve washed the mud from their shoes, they enjoy a hearty dinner in the inn’s dining room.

After dinner, they take turns in the bath, the hot water soaking away the chill from the rain outside. While Jaime’s in the bath, Brienne finds stationery and a pen in the room’s desk and writes down her fresh ideas for the book. She’s still scribbling away when Jaime comes out, and she’s so distracted that she doesn’t fully register his presence until he squeezes her shoulder. 

“What are you writing?”

“I had an idea for my novel,” she explains. “The manuscript is at the house, so I have to make do with the hotel stationery.” She writes until all of her ideas have been penned down, and only then does she look up and realize Jaime is watching her with a grin. “What?” she asks self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “You just...you look rather adorable when you’re writing.”

Brienne can’t tell if she’s flattered or offended. “Adorable?”

“Your eyes get sort of...squinty,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “And your mouth hangs open.”

Brienne flushes. “Oh.”

“I like it,” he assures her. “It’s charming.”

“It doesn’t  _ sound _ charming.”

“Well, trust me, it is. Now, are you quite ready for bed, or do you have more writing to do?”

“I’m ready for bed.” She sets down her pen, getting up and moving to the bed. 

“This is rather cozy, isn’t it?” Jaime says as they climb under the covers. 

“It is,” she agrees happily. 

“You like it here better than the house, don’t you?”

She tries not to show her surprise, but she’s always been horrible at masking her emotions. 

“It’s alright,” he says gently. “I know that it’s...not quite what you hoped. It’s not quite what I hoped, either. I think perhaps...I’ve been deluding myself about the place. That maybe it’s not as bad as I remember. Every time I leave, I think...well, now that you’ve gotten out for a bit, it won’t be so bad when you get back.” A sad look crosses his face. “But it’s always...darker than I remember it being. Colder. Lonelier.”

Brienne is quiet for a moment. “Why don’t we leave?”

Jaime looks confused. “We can’t leave. Casterly Rock is all we have.”

“Sapphire Isle was all I had,” Brienne points out. “And I left.” She rolls onto her side, propping her chin in her hand. “We could go anywhere. Dorne. The North.” She hesitates, remembering the letter for Lysa Lannister. “Riverrun.”

“Riverrun?” A shadow flickers across his face.

“Have you ever been?”

He stares at the fire. “Once.”

“Another tragedy?” Brienne asks quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

“Jaime,” she says softly. “Look at me.”

He does, his eyes full of a turmoil she can’t begin to fathom. She leans forward to kiss him, to take his mind off of his thoughts. 

He kisses back, and she feels that earlier excitement from the beach. There are much fewer layers between them now, and when Jaime cages his body over hers, she can feel the hardness between his legs. Their hands tug at each other’s clothing, and then Jaime is moving down her body, pushing her dress up to her hips.

“What are you--” she starts to ask, but then she feels his mouth, and she forgets how to speak entirely.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end!! I'm moving things a little faster in these two chapters because, well, we all know what's going to happen, no sense in dragging it out.

The rain stops in the middle of the night, and by morning, the roads are a little muddy but perfectly safe for travel. 

Brienne is too happy to care very much that they have to return to Casterly Rock. She and Jaime smile at each other all through breakfast, and even on the drive back to Casterly Rock, they can’t seem to stop turning to look at each other. He kisses her for a long moment when he helps her out of the cart, and Brienne is very tempted to take him straight up to their room.

But Jaime has to take the parts to the mines, so Brienne goes inside on her own, still smiling as she pulls off her gloves. “Cersei?” she calls. There’s a clatter from the kitchen, so Brienne heads there, the smile sliding off her face when she sees how violently her sister-in-law is making eggs. “Cersei?”

“You were gone last night.” The other woman slams the cast iron skillet on the stove. 

“It was raining horribly,” Brienne says; perhaps Cersei hadn’t noticed from the house. “We waited for it to die down, but it never did, and the streets were a veritable river. We had to seek lodging in the city.”

Cersei whirls to face Brienne with a ferocity that frightens Brienne. “I was  _ frantic! _ ”

“What--”

“You two. Alone.” Cersei’s face changes. “In the storm.”

_ She was worried, _ Brienne realizes, feeling selfish now. Of course. Not only was Cersei alone in this horrid house, but she was afraid something had happened to Jaime and Brienne. And something  _ could _ have happened, if they’d tried to leave when they did; they could have gotten stuck, and had to sleep in the cart or try to make their way to Casterly Rock on foot. Worse, the flooded roads might have pushed them into danger. 

“We had no way of telling you,” Brienne says sheepishly. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Cersei slips behind her cool, composed mask. “Don’t apologize. I overreacted. Of course you had to stay the night in the city, and there was no way to tell me. What’s done is done. Where’s Jaime?”

“He had to take the parts to the mines.”

Cersei’s eyes flicker to the papers in Brienne’s hands. “What are those?”

“Oh, scribblings, mostly.” Brienne shuffles around the stationery she’d used to pen down her thoughts from the night before. “And some letters from my lawyer.”

Cersei’s eyes flash. “Well, you should respond to those right away.”

“Yes, I should.” Brienne wonders if she should ask Cersei about Lysa Lannister, and then decides against it. Her sister-in-law is acting strange. “And change out of these clothes.” She displays the hem of her dress, spattered with mud from her and Jaime’s walk back to the depot.

“Oh, my dear, that won’t do,” Cersei clucks. “Change into something dry and I’ll bring you some tea.”

Brienne smiles at her sister-in-law. “You are so thoughtful, Cersei, thank you.”

Cersei smiles back. “What are sisters for?”

.

After changing into dry clothes and settling down with a cup of tea courtesy of Cersei, Brienne opens the letters from Mr. Hunter.

_ My dear Brienne, _

_ Please be advised that the first transfer of your father’s estate has been completed. Now, the final transaction for the remaining sum will require your signature on the document enclosed.  _

Brienne sees the document, but her pen is on the other side of the room, and something much more tantalizing is right beside her: the letter to Lysa Lannister.

Brienne opens the envelope, unfolding a letter written in the same blocky hand as the envelope.

_ My dear sister, _

_ Why will you not answer my letters, or Cat’s? Her little boy is walking and talking by now, and still no word from his favorite (and only) aunt. Ever since you married that man, you have become cold and distant. I hate to be so blunt, sister, but kindness and patience have not gotten an answer from you, so perhaps bluntness will. The only times we ever hear from you are when you’re wiring for money, which our Father is happy to provide, but how can you stand to take money without giving so much as a word of compassion? _

_ Please, Lysa, write. You have a family that loves you and wants to hear from you. You are always welcome here, you know that. _

_ Much love and concern, _

_ Your brother Edmure _

Brienne stares at the page for a long moment. Something isn’t right. In fact, something is very, very wrong.

There have been no ladies of Casterly Rock aside from Cersei and Melara in the last few years. But this letter was dated recently, which means Lysa was here at some point, and wherever she is now...well, her family doesn’t know.

_ Lady Lysa Lannister of Casterly Rock. _

_ Ever since you married that man… _

_...the only times we ever hear from you are when you’re wiring for money… _

Brienne has a horrible, horrible feeling about this.

.

She had seen a woman’s ghost right after she’d found the gramophone and the wax cylinder recordings, and somehow, she thinks that means something. 

When she slips out of her room and to the linen closet down the hall, she looks at the wax cylinder recordings and notices that two of them are dated just a few years before. With a nagging feeling, she carries the gramophone and the box into her room, closing the door before going to the water closet, where Cersei is least likely to hear her. 

The first recording scratches to life, and then a woman’s voice fills the water closet.

_ “This is Falyse Stokeworth Lannister testing the wax cylinder recording bought in the year 1893 by my beloved Jaime Lannister.” _

Brienne starts. Falyse Stokeworth Lannister. Not Melara, not Lysa...Falyse.

_ “Jaime, speak into the horn,” _ Falyse says.  _ “Say something.” _

Brienne hears a voice she knows all too well, her stomach dropping.  _ “It’s a beautiful machine, Falyse, but I don’t have anything to say.” _

_ “Say something for me, then.” _

_ “Well, what do you want me to say?” _

There’s a pause.  _ “Say...that you love me.” _

Another pause.

_ “Ding dong bell,” _ Jaime says at last, reciting an old nursery rhyme.  _ “Kitty’s in the well. Who put her in? Little Johnny Thin. Who pulled her out? Little Johnny Stout.” _ His voice begins to distort as the recording comes to its end.  _ “Oh what a naughty boy was that who tried to drown poor pussycat.” _

Brienne pulls out the second dated recording, and she hears Falyse’s voice again, but it’s weaker now, less happy. 

_ “We had plans to leave, but I can’t. All they want is my money to work on that infernal machine of his. That’s all they care about. I begged them to let me return to King’s Landing and see my family, but…” _ She coughs.

Brienne’s heart pounds in her ears. King’s Landing. Riverrun. And Melara had been from Lannisport, hadn’t she? What was it her father had said to Jaime, that day he’d proposed for funding?

_ You’ve already tried and failed to raise capital in Lannisport, King’s Landing, and Riverrun, and now you’re here. _

Gods be good. 

_ “They are killing me. The tea. There’s poison in the tea.”  _ She coughs again, and Brienne goes cold.  _ “If anyone finds this...let it be known what those monsters did to me.”  _

The recording fades out. 

The tea. The women. 

_ I’m such a fool, _ Brienne realizes. Melara hadn’t been the only wife to come before. Melara, Falyse, and Lysa had all preceded Brienne.

_ Melara never died of a draught, _ Brienne realizes.  _ They killed her, Jaime and Cersei. And then they killed Falyse, and then Lysa, and her brother still writes wondering why he hasn’t heard from her. They’re still using her name to make bank withdrawals.  _

She covers her mouth with her hand. The last of her father’s money will be sent to her upon completion of the forms Mr. Hunter sent. 

_ If I sign them, I’m signing my own execution papers. _

She feels sick to her stomach, and dizzy, and not a little stupid. Here she had thought Jaime loved her. Her, an ugly cow who nobody ever liked. How he and Cersei must have laughed behind their hands at how easy it was to seduce the stupid girl from the islands, and whisk her away like every woman in a romance novel. 

_ My father. He didn’t just fall, he died. They killed him so that I’d inherit his money. _

Tears fall down her face. Her own foolishness had killed her father. If she’d just ignored Jaime, he wouldn’t have pursued her and her father would still be alive.

_ And Talla Tarly would be where I am now. _

The dizziness gets worse.  _ The tea. The poison. I have to get out of here. _

Slowly, she pushes herself to her feet, clinging to the counter and leaning heavily on the walls as she tries to stumble out. She has to leave. She has to get out of this house. Maybe she can get to the city in time to find a doctor, or--

Black presses in around the edges of her vision, and she sinks to a heap on the bedroom floor.

.

When she wakes, she’s lying in her bed, with Cersei sitting beside her.

_ No, _ Brienne thinks miserably,  _ no, I’ve failed. _

“You’re awake,” Cersei says sweetly. “You gave me quite a fright when I found you lying on the floor.”

“I don’t feel well,” Brienne rasps. “I need to see a doctor.”

“Nonsense, you just have a chill. And no wonder, with the rains coming in the way that they are. We’ll take care of you.”

It’s true that the rains are coming down harder than ever, lashing against the windows. Through the door to the corridor, Brienne can see a steady drip from the ceiling to the floor. 

_ The rains of Castamere. _

“I don’t want to die,” Brienne weeps suddenly.

“Who said anything about dying?” Cersei asks as if Brienne is being ridiculous. “You’re in good hands, Brienne.”

But Brienne just keeps crying. “I want to go home.”

“This is your home now, you silly goose.”

“I want to go to Sapphire Isle,” Brienne bawls. “I want to see my father.”

“There, there.” Cersei holds up a bowl. “I made some porridge. It will help you gain your strength.”

It isn’t tea, so Brienne allows Cersei to ease the spoon between her lips, waiting until Brienne has swallowed a bite before she reaches for another. The porridge  _ will _ help her gain her strength. 

“I nursed Melara when she was dying,” Cersei continues. “She was always a frail little thing. She so wanted to be the Lady of the Rock, you know. Married to my handsome brother, lording it over Lannisport society. Poor thing couldn’t bear the rains. I stayed beside her until the bitter end.”

Brienne can’t stop the tears rolling down her cheeks. It would be so easy to confront Cersei...and it would be even easier for Cersei to finish her off. Pull a pillow over her face and smother her, or force more poisoned tea down her throat. Brienne doesn’t think she’s strong enough to put up a fight. 

Would Cersei kill her if Brienne hasn’t signed the papers, though? 

_ Of course she would. She and Jaime still wire to Lysa Tully’s family asking for money; she wouldn’t be above forging my signature. _

So Brienne does the only thing she can think of in that moment.

She pretends to fall asleep.

Cersei sets aside the bowl and leans close to Brienne’s face. “I’ll stay beside you until the bitter end, too.”

Brienne hears the creak of the floorboards in the corridor, and then Jaime’s voice.

“Cersei, she’s very sick. She’s dying.”

“Of course she’s dying. We’ve been poisoning her.”

Jaime’s voice is a low growl. “Cersei, stop it. Do we have to do this? Must we?”

“Yes,” Cersei says incredulously. “You have no idea what they’d do. I’d be taken from here, locked away. You’d be hanged. No, we stay together.” There’s a small hum, and when Brienne cracks her eye, she sees Cersei standing in Jaime’s embrace--but it looks more like a lover’s embrace than a brother’s. “I love you,” Cersei murmurs, kissing Jaime’s lips with an intimate tenderness that can only mean they’ve done this many, many times before. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Brienne wants to retch.

So they’re lovers. And all this while, they’ve been helping Jaime find wealthy young brides, take their money, and kill them slowly.

_ They won’t kill me, _ Brienne swears, swallowing her disgust and feigning sleep.

But a hammering at the front door nearly threatens to startle her out of her feigned sleep.

“Who in the seven hells is pounding on the door?” Jaime complains, and the corridor creaks as he and Cersei leave. Brienne stays still, just in case Cersei comes back, but a moment later, the other woman lets out a bloodcurdling shriek, and Brienne stumbles out of bed to see why.

Jaime is at the bottom of the stairs, Cersei on the landing above him, and standing on the threshold are Samwell Tarly and a dwarf with golden hair.


	12. Chapter 12

“You!” Cersei shrieks. 

“Hello, sweet sister,” says Tyrion Lannister with a horrible sort of smile. “So good to see you again.”

Cersei is clutching the banister. “You died.”

“Ah, yes. A convincing ruse, that. I’m glad to hear it worked. They never did find my body.” Tyrion moves into the house, Sam dripping behind him. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Tell me, did the house start to decay before or after you set the fire that killed Uncle Kevan?”

“What are you doing here?” Cersei asks through gritted teeth. 

“Yes,” Jaime says in a faraway sort of voice, “what  _ are _ you doing here?”

Tyrion opens up a flask, taking a delicate sip. “Truth be told, I had had no intention of returning to this miserable house after I escaped from the asylum. I lived a rather interesting life, I won’t lie; I took on a new name and went on many adventures, swanning all over the world. I ended up in Oldtown, against all odds, where I met my friend Sam here. You remember Samwell Tarly, don’t you?”

Sam gives an awkward sort of wave.

“Well, he knew I was from the area--the best lies always have a bit of truth to them, I’ve found--and asked if I knew of a Jaime and Cersei Lannister. As it so happens, his friend Selwyn Tarth had just passed away under unusual circumstances. They were unusual, you see, because prior to his death, Mr. Tarth had enlisted the help of a private investigator, and the investigator approached Sam with the belief that Mr. Tarth died for the information that was passed along to him. Sam and I put the pieces together with the help of Mr. Tarth’s private investigator, Mr. Tanner, and we rushed here to ensure that Miss Tarth did not meet the same unfortunate end as Melara Hethersoon, Falyse Stokeworth, and Lysa Tully. Is that right? Or are there more wives I’ve missed?”

Cersei straightens up. “Very clever, you little monster.”

“Oh, I’m not the monster here, sweet sister,” Tyrion says in a charming sort of voice. “I’m not a murderer. So far you’ve managed to kill every member of our family, three women, and Mr. Tarth too, I’ll wager.”

Jaime raises a hand. “Hold on.”

“Jaime,” Cersei says urgently, but her twin keeps talking.

“What do you mean, you’re not a murderer? You killed Father.”

Tyrion’s eyes sparkle as he looks at his sister. “Oh, my. That’s very sweet. All this time, and you never told him the truth? But how could you? If he knew I was innocent, and that you’d framed me for it, he’d always question his relationship with you. You knew that. So you made him believe that I was the one to kill Father.”

Jaime turns to his sister, too, his mouth hanging open. “You…?”

Cersei stands cold and proud and tall. “I did it. I killed Father. He was going to separate us. The timing of the argument was perfect. And I never told you because your heart has always been softer than mine. I fought for you. I killed for you. Who can ever say that?”

Jaime looks at his sister as if he’s never seen her before. “You made me believe that Tyrion killed our father for  _ years. _ ”

“He wanted to,” she insists. “Didn’t you, Tyrion? You and Father always hated each other.”

“Oh, I dreamt about killing him often,” Tyrion says casually. “And I admit to some relief when I realized what had happened. But I never would have done it.” He cocks his head. “I wonder, Jaime, if you ever knew our sweet sister at all.”

“Shut up,” Cersei snaps. “And go back to the miserable hole you crawled out of, and I might not tell the authorities that you came here.”

“You’d have a hell of a time,” Tyrion says coldly, “Considering the evidence Sam and I have compiled against the both of you. Really, how long did you think this was going to go on? Did you think no one would realize that you were marrying and killing wealthy young women?”

“No one’s noticed until now,” Cersei says loftily.

With more ferocity than Brienne has ever heard from him, Jaime growls,  _ “Enough!” _

Cersei falls silent.

He points a shaking finger at her. “You lied to me. We swore we would  _ never _ lie to each other!”

“Jaime,” Cersei says, but her voice is meek. 

A clap of thunder hits so hard that the house shakes. Everyone falls silent, eyes lifted to the heavens.

“The rains of Castamere,” Tyrion murmurs. 

“Be  _ quiet, _ you little beast,” Cersei hisses. 

“Jaime’s right: enough.” Tyrion looks sterner now. “We’ve come here for Brienne. Let us leave with her and we may just give you a headstart before the authorities come after you.”

“You’re not going anywhere with her,” Cersei tells him. “She’s on her deathbed even now.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “You think so?”

Brienne decides to make a run for it, hoping that by the time Cersei notices, she’ll already be past her.

It is not to be; Brienne is so ungainly, still slow from the poison in her system, and the steps make a creaking, groaning racket as she stumbles down them. Cersei starts to block her way, and even though she’s shorter and slighter than Brienne, she’s in complete control of her body where Brienne is not.

It is at that moment that Jaime lunges up the stairs, wrenching his sister away from Brienne--and down the stairs. Cersei tumbles down the staircase in a swirl of scarlet, hitting the landing with a thud.

Brienne doesn’t get a chance to make her escape, because then Jaime is turning to her, gripping her arms to keep her in place. “Brienne--”

“No,” she sobs, “let me go!”

“Brienne, listen to me--”

“You lied to me!”

“I did.”

“You poisoned me!”

“I did.”

She sobs even harder now. “You told me you loved me!”

“I do!”

She can hardly see him through the tears, but the look on Jaime’s face is anguished. 

“Look, leave if you want,” he says imploringly. “Never look back. But know that I  _ didn’t _ want to kill you, that I  _ do _ love you.”

He falls back suddenly, and Brienne sees that Cersei pulled him, her fists raining down on him as he lies prone on the stairs.

“You don’t love her!” she screams. “You only love  _ me _ !”

“Look at who we are!” he protests, trying to stop the barrage. “Look at who we’ve become!”

“Do you love her more than me?! You promised you would not fall in love with anyone else!”

“Yes, but it happened,” he says weakly.

Brienne feels a pang in her heart. He wouldn’t lie. Not now. Not like this.

_ He loves me in that horrible, sad way of his. _

And then Cersei does something very strange.

She reaches for a spoke in the banister, and with a strength Brienne would not have attributed to the other woman were she not watching with her own eyes, Cersei pries it loose and sinks it into Jaime’s heart.

Brienne screams, watching in horror as blood spreads over his white shirt and bubbles at his lips. Cersei falls back in horror, too, and when Jaime lifts a hand weakly, Cersei grasps it as if to comfort him.

“You  _ bitch, _ ” Tyrion growls, and then he’s lunging up the stairs.

He and Cersei fight in a battle that Brienne imagines is a long time coming. She can only cling to the banister, her legs wobbling until they give out and she sinks onto the step. They are both angry, and full of nothing but hate for the other, and they have both lost everything--but Cersei has nothing to live for, and Tyrion has every reason to kill her. Which is how he ends up straddling her chest, his hands wrapped around her pale white throat.

Cersei mouths something Brienne can’t make out, and then she falls horribly still, staring up at the gaps in the ceiling.

Tyrion wipes his sleeve across his face--to wipe the sweat from his face, perhaps, but Brienne is sure she sees some tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“They called me a murderer,” he says in a strained sort of voice. “I guess I am now.” He stands up with effort, wiping his eyes once more. “Come, Miss Tarth. Let’s leave this horrible place.”

.

As the carriage moves down the drive, Brienne and Tyrion watch the crumbling house grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

“‘And now the rains weep o’er his halls and no one there to hear,’” Tyrion quotes softly.

Brienne drops her gaze to her lap. In it are the letters from her attorney, the letter from Edmure Tully, and her manuscript. 

“What’s that you have there, Miss Tarth?”

“My manuscript.” She runs her fingers over the title page, where the author’s name is still typed out as  _ Brienne Tarth. _ Can she ever go back to that life? Can she put her short days as Brienne Lannister behind her?

“A novel?” Tyrion asks kindly.

Brienne’s eyes flit back out the window. “A ghost story. Or rather...a story with a ghost in it.”

Tyrion raises his flask. “To ghosts.”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “To ghosts.”


End file.
